WOLFERT'S   ROOST  AND   OTHER   STORIES 
NEWSTEAD   ABBEY 


Drawn  by  B.  West  Clinediiist. 

THE    FIRST    STEAMBOAT    ON    THE    HUDSON. 


THE   WORKS   OF 

WASHINGTON    IRVING 
WOLFERT'S    ROOST 

AND  OTHER  STORIES 

NEWSTEAD  ABBEY 


NEW  YORK 

THE  CENTURY  CO. 

1910 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

WOLFERT'S  ROOST i 

THE  BIRDS  OF  SPRING 20 

THE  CREOLE  VILLAGE 26 

MOUNTJOY 36 

THE  BERMUDAS 83 

The  Three  Kings  of  Bermuda 91 

THE  WIDOW'S  ORDEAL 96 

THE  KNIGHT  OF  MALTA no 

The  Grand  Prior  of  Minorca 112 

"A  TIME  OF  UNEXAMPLED  PROSPERITY" 129 

The  Great  Mississippi  Bubble 132 

SKETCHES  IN  PARIS  IN  1825.  —  The  Parisian  Hotel    ....  167 

My  French  Neighbor 170 

The  Englishman  at  Paris 173 

English  and  French  Character 176 

The  Tuileries  and  Windsor  Castle 179 

The  Field  of  Waterloo 183 

Paris  at  the  Restoration 186 

A  CONTENTED  MAN 191 

BROEK:  THE  DUTCH  PARADISE 198 

GUESTS  FROM  GIBBET  ISLAND     205 

THE  EARLY  EXPERIENCES  OF  RALPH  RINGWOOD 219 

THE  SEMINOLES 256 

Origin  of  the  White,  the  Red,  and  the  Black  Men       .   .  260 

The  Conspiracy  of  Neamathla 263 

THE  COUNT  VAN  HORN 270 

DON  JUAN:  A  SPECTRAL  RESEARCH 285 

LEGEND  OF  THE  ENGULPHED  CONVENT 296 

THE  PHANTOM  ISLAND 302 

The  Adalantado  of  the  Seven  Cities 305 

RECOLLECTIONS  OF  THE  ALHAMBRA 325 

The  Abencerrage 328 


2031692 


vi  CONTENTS 

NEWSTEAD  ABBEY  PAGE 

Historical  Notice 3 

Arrival  at  the  Abbey 12 

The  Abbey  Garden 18 

Plough  Monday 24 

Old  Servants 27 

Superstitions  of  the  Abbey 32 

Annesley  Hall      . 39 

The  Lake 59 

Robin  Hood  and  Sherwood  Forest      62 

The  Rook  Cell 70 

The  Little  White  Lady 75 


WOLFERT'S   ROOST 

AND  OTHER  PAPERS 

WOLFERT'S   ROOST 

CHRONICLE    I 

ABOUT  five-and-twenty  miles  from  the  ancient  and  re 
nowned  city  of  Manhattan,  formerly  called  New  Am 
sterdam,  and  vulgarly  called  New  York,  on  the  eastern 
bank  of  that  expansion  of  the  Hudson  known  among 
Dutch  mariners  of  yore  as  the  Tappan  Zee,  being  in 
fact  the  great  Mediterranean  Sea  of  the  New  Nether 
lands,  stands  a  little,  old-fashioned  stone  mansion,  all 
made  up  of  gable  ends,  and  as  full  of  angles  and  cor 
ners  as  an  old  cocked  hat.  It  is  said,  in  fact,  to  have 
been  modelled  after  the  cocked  hat  of  Peter  the  Head 
strong,  as  the  Escurial  was  modelled  after  the  grid 
iron  of  the  blessed  St.  Lawrence.  Though  but  of  small 
dimensions,  yet,  like  many  small  people,  it  is  of  mighty 
spirit,  and  values  :tself  greatly  on  its  antiquity,  being 
one  of  the  oldest  edifices,  for  its  size,  in  the  whole 
country.  It  claims  to  be  an  ancient  seat  of  empire,  — 
I  may  rather  say  an  empire  in  itself,  —  and  like  all 
empires,  great  and  small,  has  had  its  grand  historical 
epochs.  In  speaking  of  this  doughty  and  valorous 
little  pile,  I  shall  call  it  by  its  usual  appellation  of 
"  The  Roost  " ;  though  that  is  a  name  given  to  it  in 
modern  days,  since  it  became  the  abode  of  the  white 
man. 


2  WOLFERT'S  ROOST 

Its  origin,  in  truth,  dates  far  back  in  that  remote 
region  commonly  called  the  fabulous  age,  in  which 
vulgar  fact  becomes  mystified  and  tinted  up  with  de 
lectable  fiction.  The  eastern  shore  of  the  Tappan  Sea 
was  inhabited  in  those  days  by  an  unsophisticated  race, 
existing  in  all  the  simplicity  of  nature ;  that  is  to  say, 
they  lived  by  hunting  and  fishing,  and  recreated  them 
selves  occasionally  with  a  little  tomahawking  and  scalp 
ing.  Each  stream  that  flows  down  from  the  hills  into 
the  Hudson  had  its  petty  sachem,  who  ruled  over  a 
hand's-breadth  of  forest  on  either  side,  and  had  his 
seat  of  government  at  its  mouth.  The  chieftain  who 
ruled  at  the  Roost  was  not  merely  a  great  warrior,  but 
a  medicine-man,  or  prophet,  or  conjurer,  for  they  all 
mean  the  same  thing  in  Indian  parlance.  Of  his  fight 
ing  propensities  evidences  still  remain,  in  various 
arrow-heads  of  flint,  and  stone  battle-axes,  occasionally 
digged  up  about  the  Roost;  of  his  wizard  powers  we 
have  a  token  in  a  spring  which  wells  up  at  the  foot 
of  the  bank,  on  the  very  margin  of  the  river,  which, 
it  is  said,  was  gifted  by  him  with  rejuvenating  powers, 
something  like  the  renowned  Fountain  of  Youth  in 
the  Floridas,  so  anxiously  but  vainly  sought  after  by 
the  veteran  Ponce  de  Leon.  This  story,  however,  is 
stoutly  contradicted  by  an  old  Dutch  matter-of-fact 
tradition,  which  declares  that  the  spring  in  question 
was  smuggled  over  from  Holland  in  a  churn,  by  Fem- 
metie  Van  Blarcom,  wife  of  Goosen  Garret  Van 
Blarcom,  one  of  the  first  settlers,  and  that  she  took  it 
up  by  night,  unknown  to  her  husband,  from  beside 
their  farm-house  near  Rotterdam;  being  sure  she 
should  find  no  water  equal  to  it  in  the  new  country ;  — 
and  she  was  right. 

The  wizard  sachem  had  a  great  passion  for  dis 
cussing  territorial  questions,  and  settling  boundary 
lines ;  in  other  words,  he  had  the  spirit  of  annexation. 
This  kept  him  in  continual  feud  with  the  neighboring 


WOLFERT'S  ROOST  3 

sachems,  each  of  whom  stood  up  stoutly  for  his  hand- 
breadth  of  territory;  so  that  there  is  not  a  petty  stream 
nor  rugged  hill  in  the  neighborhood  that  has  not  been 
the  subject  of  long  talks  and  hard  battles.  The  sachem, 
however,  as  has  been  observed,  was  a  medicine-man 
as  well  as  warrior,  and  vindicated  his  claims  by  arts 
as  well  as  arms ;  so  that,  by  dint  of  a  little  hard  fight 
ing  here,  and  hocus-pocus  (or  diplomacy)  there,  he 
managed  to  extend  his  boundary  line  from  field  to 
field  and  stream  to  stream,  until  it  brought  him  into 
collision  with  the  powerful  sachem  of  Sing-Sing.1 
Many  were  the  sharp  conflicts  between  these  rival 
chieftains  for  the  sovereignty  of  a  winding  valley,  a 
favorite  hunting-ground  watered  by  a  beautiful  stream 
called  the  Pocantico.  Many  were  the  ambuscades,  sur- 
prisals,  and  deadly  onslaughts  that  took  place  among 
its  fastnesses,  of  which  it  grieves  me  much  that  I 
cannot  pursue  the  details,  for  the  gratification  of  those 
gentle  but  bloody-minded  readers,  of  both  sexes,  who 
delight  in  the  romance  of  the  tomahawk  and  scalping- 
knife.  Suffice  it  to  say,  that  the  wizard  chieftain  was 
at  length  victorious,  though  his  victory  is  attributed, 
in  Indian  tradition,  to  a  great  medicine,  or  charm,  by 
which  he  laid  the  sachem  of  Sing-Sing  and  his  war 
riors  asleep  among  the  rocks  and  recesses  of  the  valley, 
where  they  remain  asleep  to  the  present  day,  with  their 
bows  and  war-clubs  beside  them.  This  was  the  origin 
of  that  potent  and  drowsy  spell,  which  still  prevails 
over  the  valley  of  the  Pocantico,  and  which  has  gained 
it  the  well-merited  appellation  of  Sleepy  Hollow. 
Often,  in  secluded  and  quiet  parts  of  that  valley,  where 
the  stream  is  overhung  by  dark  woods  and  rocks,  the 

1  A  corruption  of  the  old  Indian  name,  O-sin-sing.  Some  have 
rendered  it,  O-sin-song,  or  O-sing-song,  in  token  of  its  being  a 
great  market-town,  where  anything  may  be  had  for  a  mere  song. 
Its  present  melodious  alteration  to  Sing-Sing  is  said  to  have  been 
made  in  compliment  to  a  Yankee  singing-master,  who  taught  the 
inhabitants  the  art  of  singing  through  the  nose. 


4  WOLFERT'S  ROOST 

ploughman,  on  some  calm  and  sunny  day,  as  he  shouts 
to  his  oxen,  is  surprised  at  hearing  faint  shouts  from 
the  hill-sides  in  reply;  being,  it  is  said,  the  spellbound 
warriors,  who  half  start  from  their  rocky  couches  and 
grasp  their  weapons,  but  sink  to  sleep  again. 

The  conquest  of  the  Pocantico  was  the  last  triumph 
of  the  wizard  sachem.  Notwithstanding  all  his  medi 
cines  and  charms,  he  fell  in  battle,  in  attempting  to 
extend  his  boundary  line  to  the  east,  so  as  to  take  in  the 
little  wild  valley  of  the  Sprain;  and  his  grave  is  still 
shown,  near  the  banks  of  that  pastoral  stream.  He 
left,  however,  a  great  empire  to  his  successors,  extend 
ing  along  the  Tappan  Sea,  from  Yonkers  quite  to 
Sleepy  Hollow,  and  known  in  old  records  and  maps  by 
the  Indian  name  of  Wicquaes-Keck. 

The  wizard  sachem  was  succeeded  by  a  line  of  chiefs 
of  whom  nothing  remarkable  remains  on  record.  One 
of  them  was  the  very  individual  on  whom  master  Hen- 
drick  Hudson  and  his  mate  Robert  Juet  made  that 
sage  experiment  gravely  recorded  by  the  latter,  in  the 
narrative  of  the  discovery. 

"  Our  master  and  his  mate  determined  to  try  some 
of  the  cheefe  men  of  the  country,  whether  they  had 
any  treacherie  in  them.  So  they  took  them  down  into 
the  cabin,  and  gave  them  so  much  wine  and  aqua  vitae, 
that  they  were  all  very  merrie;  one  of  them  had  his 
wife  with  him,  which  sate  so  modestly  as  any  of  our 
countrywomen  would  do  in  a  strange  place.  In  the 
end,  one  of  them  was  drunke;  and  that  was  strange 
to  them,  for  they  could  not  tell  how  to  take  it."  * 

How  far  master  Hendrick  Hudson  and  his  worthy 
mate  carried  their  experiment  with  the  sachem's  wife, 
is  not  recorded;  neither  does  the  curious  Robert  Juet 
make  any  mention  of  the  after  consequences  of  this 
grand  moral  test;  tradition,  however,  affirms  that  the 
sachem,  on  landing,  gave  his  modest  spouse  a  hearty 
1  See  Juet's  Journal,  Purchas'  Pilgrims. 


WOLFERT'S  ROOST  5 

rib-roasting,  according  to  the  connubial  discipline  of 
the  aboriginals;  it  farther  affirms  that  he  remained  a 
hard  drinker  to  the  day  of  his  death,  trading  away  all 
his  lands,  acre  by  acre,  for  aqua  vitae ;  by  which  means 
the  Roost  and  all  its  domains,  from  Yonkers  to  Sleepy 
Hollow,  came,  in  the  regular  course  of  trade,  and  by 
right  of  purchase,  into  the  possession  of  the  Dutchmen. 

The  worthy  government  of  the  New  Netherlands 
was  not  suffered  to  enjoy  this  grand  acquisition  un 
molested.  In  the  year  1654,  the  losel  Yankees  of  Con 
necticut,  those  swapping,  bargaining,  squatting  ene 
mies  of  the  Manhattoes,  made  a  daring  inroad  into 
this  neighborhood,  and  founded  a  colony  called  West- 
chester,  or,  as  the  ancient  Dutch  records  term  it,  Vest 
Dorp,  in  the  right  of  one  Thomas  Pell,  who  pretended 
to  have  purchased  the  whole  surrounding  country  of 
the  Indians,  and  stood  ready  to  argue  their  claims  be 
fore  any  tribunal  of  Christendom. 

This  happened  during  the  chivalrous  reign  of  Peter 
Stuyvesant,  and  roused  the  ire  of  that  gunpowder  old 
hero.  Without  waiting  to  discuss  claims  and  titles,  he 
pounced  at  once  upon  the  nest  of  nefarious  squatters, 
carried  off  twenty-five  of  them  in  chains  to  the  Man 
hattoes  ;  nor  did  he  stay  his  hand,  nor  give  rest  to  his 
wooden  leg,  until  he  had  driven  the  rest  of  the  Yankees 
back  into  Connecticut,  or  obliged  them  to  acknowledge 
allegiance  to  their  High  Mightinesses.  In  revenge, 
however,  they  introduced  the  plague  of  witchcraft  into 
the  province.  This  doleful  malady  broke  out  at  Vest 
Dorp,  and  would  have  spread  throughout  the  country 
had  not  the  Dutch  farmers  nailed  horse-shoes  to  the 
doors  of  their  houses  and  barns,  sure  protections 
against  witchcraft,  many  of  which  remain  to  the  pres 
ent  day. 

The  seat  of  empire  of  the  wizard  sachem  now  came 
into  the  possession  of  Wolfert  Acker,  one  of  the  privy 
councillors  of  Peter  Stuyvesant.  He  was  a  worthy, 


but  ill-starred  man,  whose  aim  through  life  had  been 
to  live  in  peace  and  quiet.  For  this  he  had  emigrated 
from  Holland,  driven  abroad  by  family  feuds  and 
wrangling  neighbors.  He  had  warred  for  quiet 
through  the  fidgety  reign  of  William  the  Testy,  and 
the  fighting  reign  of  Peter  the  Headstrong,  sharing 
in  every  brawl  and  rib-roasting,  in  his  eagerness  to 
keep  the  peace  and  promote  public  tranquillity.  It 
was  his  doom,  in  fact,  to  meet  a  head-wind  at  every 
turn,  and  be  kept  in  a  constant  fume  and  fret  by  the 
perverseness  of  mankind.  Had  he  served  on  a  modern 
jury,  he  would  have  been  sure  to  have  eleven  unreason 
able  men  opposed  to  him. 

At  the  time  when  the  province  of  the  New  Nether 
lands  was  wrested  from  the  domination  of  their  High 
Mightinesses  by  the  combined  forces  of  Old  and  New 
England,  Wolfert  retired  in  high  dudgeon  to  this  fast 
ness  in  the  wilderness,  with  the  bitter  determination 
to  bury  himself  from  the  world,  and  live  here  for  the 
rest  of  his  days  in  peace  and  quiet.  In  token  of  that 
fixed  purpose,  he  inscribed  over  his  door  (his  teeth 
clinched  at  the  time)  his  favorite  Dutch  motto,  "  Lust 
in  Rust  "  (pleasure  in  quiet).  The  mansion  was  thence 
called  Wolfert's  Rust  ( Wolf  erf  s  Rest),  but  by  the  un 
educated,  who  did  not  understand  Dutch,  Wolfert's 
Roost;  probably  from  its  quaint  cockloft  look,  and 
from  its  having  a  weathercock  perched  on  every  gable. 

Wolfert's  luck  followed  him  into  retirement.  He 
had  shut  himself  up  from  the  world,  but  he  had  brought 
with  him  a  wife,  and  it  soon  passed  into  a  proverb 
throughout  the  neighborhood  that  the  cock  of  the  Roost 
was  the  most  henpecked  bird  in  the  country.  His  house 
too  was  reputed  to  be  harassed  by  Yankee  witchcraft. 
When  the  weather  was  quiet  everywhere  else,  the  wind, 
it  was  said,  would  howl  and  whistle  about  the  gables; 
witches  and  warlocks  would  whirl  about  upon  the 
weathercocks,  and  scream  down  the  chimneys;  nay, 


WOLFERT'S  ROOST  7 

it  was  even  hinted  that  Wolfert's  wife  was  in  league 
with  the  enemy,  and  used  to  ride  on  a  broomstick  to 
a  witches'  sabbath  in  Sleepy  Hollow.  This,  however, 
was  all  mere  scandal,  founded  perhaps  on  her  occasion 
ally  flourishing  a  broomstick  in  the  course  of  a  curtain 
lecture,  or  raising  a  storm  within  doors,  as  termagant 
wives  are  apt  to  do,  and  against  which  sorcery  horse 
shoes  are  of  no  avail. 

Wolfert  Acker  died  and  was  buried,  but  found  no 
quiet  even  in  the  grave;  for  if  popular  gossip  be  true, 
his  ghost  has  occasionally  been  seen  walking  by  moon 
light  among  the  old  gray  moss-grown  trees  of  his 
apple  orchard. 

CHRONICLE    II 

The  next  period  at  which  we  find  this  venerable  and 
eventful  pile  rising  into  importance,  was  during  the 
dark  and  troublous  times  of  the  revolutionary  war. 
It  was  the  keep  or  stronghold  of  Jacob  Van  Tassel,  a 
valiant  Dutchman  of  the  old  stock  of  Van  Tassels,  who 
abound  in  Westchester  County.  The  name,  as  origi 
nally  written,  was  Van  Texel,  being  derived  from  the 
Texel  in  Holland,  which  gave  birth  to  that  heroic  line. 

The  Roost  stood  in  the  very  heart  of  what  at  that 
time  was  called  the  debatable  ground,  lying  between 
the  British  and  American  lines.  The  British  held  pos 
session  of  the  city  and  island  of  New  York ;  while  the 
Americans  drew  up  towards  the  Highlands,  holding 
their  head-quarters  at  Peekskill.  The  intervening 
country  from  Croton  River  to  Spiting  Devil  Creek  was 
the  debatable  ground  in  question,  liable  to  be  harried 
by  friend  and  foe,  like  the  Scottish  borders  of  yore. 

It  is  a  rugged  region,  full  of  fastnesses.  A  line  of 
rocky  hills  extends  through  it  like  a  backbone  send 
ing  out  ribs  on  either  side ;  but  these  rude  hills  are  for 
the  most  part  richly  wooded,  and  enclose  little  fresh 


8  WOLFERTS  ROOST 

pastoral  valleys  watered  by  the  Neperan,  the  Pocantico,1 
and  other  beautiful  streams,  along  which  the  Indians 
built  their  wigwams  in  the  olden  time. 

In  the  fastnesses  of  these  hills,  and  along  these  val 
leys,  existed,  in  the  time  of  which  I  am  treating,  and 
indeed  exist  to  the  present  day,  a  race  of  hard-headed, 
hard-handed,  stout-hearted  yeomen,  descendants  of 
the  primitive  Nederlanders.  Men  obstinately  attached 
to  the  soil,  and  neither  to  be  fought  nor  bought  out  of 
their  paternal  acres.  Most  of  them  were  strong  Whigs 
throughout  the  war;  some,  however,* were  Tories,  or 
adherents  to  the  old  kingly  rule,  who  considered  the 
revolution  a  mere  rebellion,  soon  to  be  put  down  by 
his  majesty's  forces.  A  number  of  these -took  refuge 
within  the  British  lines,  joined  the  military  bands  of 
refugees,  and  became  pioneers  or  leaders  to  foraging 
parties  sent  out  from  New  York  to  scour  the  country 
and  sweep  off  supplies  for  the  British  army. 

In  a  little  while  the  debatable  ground  became  in 
fested  by  roving  bands,  claiming  from  either  side,  and 
all  pretending  to  redress  wrongs  and  punish  political 
offences;  but  all  prone  in  the  exercise  of  their  high 
functions  —  to  sack  hen-roosts,  drive  off  cattle,  and 
lay  farm-houses  under  contribution ;  such  was  the 
origin  of  two  great  orders  of  border  chivalry,  the 
Skinners  and  the  Cow  Boys,  famous  in  revolutionary 
story:  the  former  fought,  or  rather  marauded,  under 
the  American,  the  latter,  under  the  British  banner.  In 

1  The  Neperan,  vulgarly  called  the  Saw-Mill  River,  winds  for 
many  miles  through  a  lovely  valley,  shrouded  by  groves,  and 
dotted  by  Dutch  farm-houses,  and  empties  itself  into  the  Hudson 
at  the  ancient  Dorp  of  Yonkers.  The  Pocantico,  rising  among 
woody  hills,  winds  in  many  a  wizard  maze  through  the  seques 
tered  haunts  of  Sleepy  Hollow.  We  owe  it  to  the  indefatigable 
researches  of  Mr.  KNICKERBOCKER,  that  those  beautiful  streams  are 
rescued  from  modern  common-place,  and  reinvested  with  their 
ancient  Indian  names.  The  correctness  of  the  venerable  historian 
may  be  ascertained  by  reference  to  the  records  of  the  original  In 
dian  grants  to  the  Herr  Frederick  Philipsen,  preserved  in  the 
county  clerk's  office  at  White  Plains. 


WOLFERT'S  ROOST  9 

the  zeal  of  service,  both  were  apt  to  make  blunders, 
and  confound  the  property  of  friend  and  foe.  Neither 
of  them  in  the  heat  and  hurry  of  a  foray  had  time  to 
ascertain  the  politics  of  a  horse  or  cow,  which  they 
were  driving  off  into  captivity ;  nor,  when  they  wrung 
the  neck  of  a  rooster,  did  they  trouble  their  heads 
whether  he  crowed  for  Congress  or  King  George. 

To  check  these  enormities,  a  confederacy  was  formed 
among  the  yeomanry  who  had  suffered  from  these 
maraudings.  It  was  composed  for  the  most  part  of 
farmers'  sons,  bold,  hard-riding  lads,  well  armed,  and 
well  mounted,  and  undertook  to  clear  the  country  round 
of  Skinner  and  Cow  Boy,  and  all  other  border  vermin ; 
as  the  Holy  Brotherhood  in  old  times  cleared  Spain 
of  the  banditti  which  infested  her  highways. 

Wolfert's  Roost  was  one  of  the  rallying  places  of 
this  confederacy,  and  Jacob  Van  Tassel  one  of  its 
members.  He  was  eminently  fitted  for  the  service; 
stout  of  frame,  bold  of  heart,  and  like  his  predecessor, 
the  warrior  sachem  of  yore,  delighting  in  daring  enter 
prises.  He  had  an  Indian's  sagacity  in  discovering 
when  the  enemy  was  on  the  maraud,  and  in  hearing 
the  distant  tramp  of  cattle.  It  seemed  as  if  he  had  a 
scout  on  every  hill,  and  an  ear  as  quick  as  that  of  Fine 
Ear  in  the  fairy  tale. 

The  foraging  parties  of  Tories  and  refugees  had 
now  to  be  secret  and  sudden  in  their  forays  into 
Westchester  County;  to  make  a  hasty  maraud  among 
the  farms,  sweep  the  cattle  into  a  drove,  and  hurry 
down  to  the  lines  along  the  river  road,  or  the  valley  of 
the  Neperan.  Before  they  were  half-way  down,  Jacob 
Van  Tassel,  with  the  holy  brotherhood  of  Tarrytown, 
Petticoat  Lane,  and  Sleepy  Hollow,  would  be  clatter 
ing  at  their  heels.  And  no\y  there  would  be  a  general 
scamper  for  King's  Bridge,  the  pass  over  Spiting  Devil 
Creek,  into  the  British  lines.  Sometimes  the  moss 
troopers  would  be  overtaken,  and  eased  of  part  of  their 


io  WOLFERT'S  ROOST 

booty.  Sometimes  the  whole  cavalgada  would  urge  its 
headlong  course  across  the  bridge  with  thundering 
tramp  and  dusty  whirlwind.  At  such  times  their 
pursuers  would  rein  up  their  steeds,  survey  that 
perilous  pass  with  wary  eye,  and,  wheeling  about, 
indemnify  themselves  by  foraging  the  refugee  region 
of  Morrisania. 

While  the  debatable  land  was  liable  to  be  thus  har 
ried,  the  great  Tappan  Sea,  along  which  it  extends, 
was  likewise  domineered  over  by  the  foe.  British 
ships  of  war  were  anchored  here  and  there  in  the  wide 
expanses  of  the  river,  mere  floating  castles  to  hold  it 
in  subjection.  Stout  galleys  armed  with  eighteen 
pounders,  and  navigated  with  sails  and  oars,  cruised 
about  like  hawks,  while  row-boats  made  descents  upon 
the  land,  and  foraged  the  country  along  shore. 

It  was  a  sore  grievance  to  the  yeomanry  along  the 
Tappan  Sea  to  behold  that  little  Mediterranean 
ploughed  by  hostile  prows,  and  the  noble  river  of  which 
they  were  so  proud  reduced  to  a  state  of  thraldom. 
Councils  of  war  were  held  by  captains  of  market-boats 
and  other  river-craft,  to  devise  ways  and  means  of 
dislodging  the  enemy.  Here  and  there  on  a  point  of 
land  extending  into  the  Tappan  Sea,  a  mud  work 
would  be  thrown  up,  and  an  old  field-piece  mounted, 
with  which  a  knot  of  rustic  artillerymen  would  fire 
away  for  a  long  summer's  day  at  some  frigate  dozing 
at  anchor  far  out  of  reach ;  and  reliques  of  such  works 
may  still  be  seen  overgrown  with  weeds  and  brambles, 
with  peradventure  the  half-buried  fragment  of  a  can 
non  which  may  have  burst. 

Jacob  Van  Tassel  was  a  prominent  man  in  these 
belligerent  operations;  but  he  was  prone,  moreover, 
to  carry  on  a  petty  warfare  of  his  own  for  his  indi 
vidual  recreation  and  refreshment.  On  a  row  of  hooks 
above  the  fireplace  of  the  Roost,  reposed  his  great  piece 
of  ordnance,  —  a  duck,  or  rather  goose-gun,  of  un- 


WOLFERT'S  ROOST  n 

paralleled  longitude,  with  which  it  was  said  he  could 
kill  a  wild  goose  half-way  across  the  Tappan  Sea. 
Indeed,  there  are  as  many  wonders  told  of  this  re 
nowned  gun,  as  of  the  enchanted  weapons  of  classic 
story.  When  the  belligerent  feeling  was  strong  upon 
Jacob,  he  would  take  down  his  gun,  sally  forth  alone, 
and  prowl  along  shore,  dodging  behind  rocks  and  trees, 
watching  for  hours  together  any  ship  or  galley  at 
anchor  or  becalmed,  as  a  valorous  mouser  will  watch 
a  rat-hole.  So  sure  as  a  boat  approached  the  shore, 
bang  went  the  great  goose-gun,  sending  on  board  a 
shower  of  slugs  and  buck-shot;  and  away  scuttled 
Jacob  Van  Tassel  through  some  woody  ravine.  As 
the  Roost  stood  in  a  lonely  situation,  and  might  be 
attacked,  he  guarded  against  surprise  by  making  loop 
holes  in  the  stone  walls,  through  which  to  fire  upon  an 
assailant.  His  wife  was  stout-hearted  as  himself,  and 
could  load  as  fast  as  he  could  fire;  and  his  sister, 
Nochie  Van  Wurmer,  a  redoubtable  widow,  was  a 
match,  as  he  said,  for  the  stoutest  man  in  the  country. 
Thus  garrisoned,  his  little  castle  was  fitted  to  stand  a 
siege,  and  Jacob  was  the  man  to  defend  it  to  the  last 
charge  of  powder. 

In  the  process  of  time  the  Roost  became  one  of 
the  secret  stations,  or  lurking-places,  of  the  Water 
Guard.  This  was  an  aquatic  corps  in  the  pay  of  gov 
ernment,  organized  to  range  the  waters  of  the  Hudson, 
and  keep  watch  upon  the  movements  of  the  enemy.  It 
was  composed  of  nautical  men  of  the  river,  and  hardy 
youngsters  of  the  adjacent  country,  expert  at  pulling 
an  oar  or  handling  a  musket.  They  were  provided 
with  whale-boats,  long  and  sharp,  shaped  like  canoes, 
and  formed  to  lie  lightly  on  the  water,  and  be  rowed 
with  great  rapidity.  In  these  they  would  lurk  out  of 
sight  by  day,  in  nooks  and  bays,  and  behind  points  of 
land,  keeping  a  sharp  look-out  upon  the  British  ships, 
and  giving  intelligence  to  head-quarters  of  any  extraor- 


12  WOLFERT'S  ROOST 

dinary  movement.  At  night  they  rowed  about  in  pairs, 
pulling  quietly  along  with  muffled  oars,  under  shadow 
of  the  land,  or  gliding  like  spectres  about  frigates  and 
guard-ships  to  cut  off  any  boat  that  might  be  sent  to 
shore.  In  this  way  they  were  a  source  of  constant  un 
easiness  and  alarm  to  the  enemy. 

The  Roost,  as  has  been  observed,  was  one  of  their 
lurking-places;  having  a  cove  in  front  where  their 
whale-boats  could  be  drawn  up  out  of  sight,  and  Jacob 
Van  Tassel  being  a  vigilant  ally,  ready  to  take  a  part  in 
any  "  scout  or  scrummage  "  by  land  or  water.  At  this 
little  warrior  nest  the  hard-riding  lads  from  the  hills 
would  hold  consultations  with  the  chivalry  of  the  river, 
and  here  were  concerted  divers  of  those  daring  enter 
prises  which  resounded  from  Spiting  Devil  Creek  even 
unto  Anthony's  Nose.  Here  was  concocted  the  mid 
night  invasion  of  New  York  Island,  and  the  conflagra 
tion  of  Delancy's  Tory  mansion,  which  makes  such  a 
blaze  in  revolutionary  history.  Nay,  more,  if  the  tra 
ditions  of  the  Roost  may  be  credited,  here  was  medi 
tated,  by  Jacob  Van  Tassel  and  his  compeers,  a  noctur 
nal  foray  into  New  York  itself,  to  surprise  and  carry 
off  the  British  commanders,  Howe  and  Clinton,  and 
put  a  triumphant  close  to  the  war. 

There  is  no  knowing  whether  this  notable  scheme 
might  not  have  been  carried  into  effect,  had  not  one 
of  Jacob  Van  Tassel's  egregious  exploits  along  shore 
with  his  goose-gun,  with  which  he  thought  himself  a 
match  for  anything,  brought  vengeance  on  his  house. 

It  so  happened,  that  in  the  course  of  one  of  his  soli 
tary  prowls  he  descried  a  British  transport  aground; 
the  stern  swung  toward  shore  within  point-blank  shot. 
The  temptation  was  too  great  to  be  resisted.  Bang! 
went  the  great  goose-gun,  from  the  covert  of  the  trees, 
shivering  the  cabin-windows  and  driving  all  hands 
forward.  Bang!  bang!  the  shots  were  repeated.  The 
reports  brought  other  of  Jacob's  fellow  bush-fighters  to 


WOLFERT'S  ROOST  13 

the  spot.  Before  the  transport  could  bring  a  gun  to 
bear,  or  land  a  boat  to  take  revenge,  she  was  soundly 
peppered,  and  the  coast  evacuated. 

This  was  the  last  of  Jacob's  triumphs.  He  fared 
like  some  heroic  spider  that  has  unwittingly  ensnared 
a  hornet  to  the  utter  ruin  of  his  web.  It  was  not  long 
after  the  above  exploit  that  he  fell  into  the  hands  of 
the  enemy  in  the  course  of  one  of  his  forays,  and  was 
carried  away  prisoner  to  New  York.  The  Roost  itself, 
as  a  pestilent  rebel  nest,  was  marked  out  for  signal 
punishment.  The  cock  of  the  Roost  being  captive, 
there  was  none  to  garrison  it  but  his  stout-hearted 
spouse,  his  redoubtable  sister,  Nochie  Van  Wurmer, 
and  Dinah,  a  strapping  negro  wench.  An  armed  ves 
sel  came  to  anchor  in  front ;  a  boat  full  of  men  pulled 
to  shore.  The  garrison  flew  to  arms;  that  is  to  say, 
to  mops,  broomsticks,  shovels,  tongs,  and  all  kinds  of 
domestic  weapons,  —  for  unluckily  the  great  piece 
of  ordnance,  the  goose-gun,  was  absent  with  its  owner. 
Above  all,  a  vigorous  defence  was  made  with  that 
most  potent  of  female  weapons,  the  tongue.  Never 
did  invaded  hen-roost  make  a  more  vociferous  outcry. 
It  was  all  in  vain.  The  house  was  sacked  and  plun 
dered,  fire  was  set  to  each  corner,  and  in  a  few  mo 
ments  its  blaze  shed  a  baleful  light  far  over  the  Tappan 
Sea.  The  invaders  then  pounced  upon  the  blooming 
Laney  Van  Tassel,  the  beauty  of  the  Roost,  and  en 
deavored  to  bear  her  off  to  the  boat.  But  here  was  the 
real  tug  of  war.  The  mother,  the  aunt,  and  the  strap 
ping  negro  wench,  all  flew  to  the  rescue.  The  struggle 
continued  down  to  the  very  water's  edge,  when  a  voice 
from  the  armed  vessel  at  anchor  ordered  the  spoilers 
to  desist;  they  relinquished  their  prize,  jumped  into 
their  boats,  and  pulled  off,  and  the  heroine  of  the  Roost 
escaped  with  a  mere  rumpling  of  her  feathers. 

As  to  the  stout  Jacob  himself,  he  was  detained  a 
prisoner  in  New  York  for  the  greater  part  of  the  war ; 


14  WOLFERT'S  ROOST 

in  the  mean  time  the  Roost  remained  a  melancholy 
ruin,  its  stone  walls  and  brick  chimneys  alone  standing, 
the  resorts  of  bats  and  owls.  Superstitious  notions 
prevailed  about  it.  None  of  the  country  people  would 
venture  alone  at  night  down  the  rambling  lane  which 
led  to  it,  overhung  with  trees,  and  crossed  here  and 
there  by  a  wild  wandering  brook.  The  story  went  that 
one  of  the  victims  of  Jacob  Van  Tassel's  great  goose- 
gun  had  been  buried  there  in  unconsecrated  ground. 

Even  the  Tappan  Sea  in  front  was  said  to  be  haunted. 
Often  in  the  still  twilight  of  a  summer  evening,  when 
the  sea  would  be  as  glass,  and  the  opposite  hills  would 
throw  their  purple  shadows  half  across  it,  a  low  sound 
would  be  heard  as  of  the  steady,  vigorous  pull  of  oars, 
though  not  a  boat  was  to  be  descried.  Some  might 
have  supposed  that  a  boat  was  rowed  along  unseen 
under  the  deep  shadows  of  the  opposite  shores;  but 
the  ancient  traditionists  of  the  neighborhood  knew 
better.  Some  said  it  was  one  of  the  whale-boats  of 
the  old  Water  Guard,  sunk  by  the  British  ships  during 
the  war,  but  now  permitted  to  haunt  its  old  cruising- 
grounds;  but  the  prevalent  opinion  connected  it  with 
the  awful  fate  of  Rambout  Van  Dam  of  graceless 
memory.  He  was  a  roistering  Dutchman  of  Spiting 
Devil,  who  in  times  long  past  had  navigated  his  boat 
alone  one  Saturday  the  whole  length  of  the  Tappan 
Sea,  to  attend  a  quilting  frolic  at  Kakiat,  on  the  west 
ern  shore.  Here  he  had  danced  and  drunk  until  mid 
night,  when  he  entered  his  boat  to  return  home.  He 
was  warned  that  he  was  on  the  verge  of  Sunday  morn 
ing  ;  but  he  pulled  off  nevertheless,  swearing  he  would 
not  land  until  he  reached  Spiting  Devil,  if  it  took  him 
a  month  of  Sundays.  He  was  never  seen  afterwards ; 
but  may  be  heard  plying  his  oars,  as  above  mentioned, 
—  being  the  Flying  Dutchman  of  the  Tappan  Sea, 
doomed  to  ply  between  Kakiat  and  Spiting  Devi] 
the  day  of  judgment. 


WOLFERT'S  ROOST  15 


CHRONICLE   III 

The  revolutionary  war  was  over.  The  debatable 
ground  had  once  more  become  a  quiet  agricultural 
region;  the  border  chivalry  had  turned  their  swords 
into  ploughshares,  and  their  spears  into  pruning-hooks, 
and  hung  up  their  guns,  only  to  be  taken  down  occa 
sionally  in  a  campaign  against  wild  pigeons  on  the 
hills,  or  wild  ducks  upon  the  Hudson.  Jacob  Van 
Tassel,  whilome  carried  captive  to  New  York,  a  flagi 
tious  rebel,  had  come  forth  from  captivity  a  "  hero  of 
seventy-six."  In  a  little  while  he  sought  the  scenes  of 
his  former  triumphs  and  mishaps,  rebuilt  the  Roost, 
restored  his  goose-gun  to  the  hooks  over  the  fireplace, 
and  reared  once  more  on  high  the  glittering  weather 
cocks. 

Years  and  years  passed  over  the  time-honored  little 
mansion.  The  honeysuckle  and  the  sweetbrier  crept 
up  its  walls ;  the  wren  and  the  Phoebe-bird  built  under 
the  eaves;  it  gradually  became  almost  hidden  among 
trees,  through  which  it  looked  forth,  as  with  half-shut 
eyes,  upon  the  Tappan  Sea.  The  Indian  spring,  fa 
mous  in  the  days  of  the  wizard  sachem,  still  welled  up 
at  the  bottom  of  the  green  bank;  and  the  wild  brook, 
wild  as  ever,  came  babbling  down  the  ravine,  and 
threw  itself  into  the  little  cove  where  of  yore  the  Water 
Guard  harbored  their  whale-boats. 

Such  was  the  state  of  the  Roost  many  years  since, 
at  the  time  when  Diedrich  Knickerbocker  came  into 
this  neighborhood,  in  the  course  of  his  researches 
among  the  Dutch  families  for  materials  for  his  im 
mortal  history.  The  exterior  of  the  eventful  little  pile 
seemed  to  him  full  of  promise.  The  crow-step  gables 
were  of  the  primitive  architecture  of  the  province. 
The  weathercocks  which  surmounted  them  had  crowed 
in  the  glorious  days  of  the  New  Netherlands.  The  one 


16  WOLFERT'S  ROOST 

above  the  porch  had  actually  glittered  of  yore  on  the 
great  Vander  Heyden  palace  at  Albany. 

The  interior  of  the  mansion  fulfilled  its  external 
promise.  Here  were  records  of  old  times ;  documents 
of  the  Dutch  dynasty,  rescued  from  the  profane  hands 
of  the  English  by  Wolfert  Acker,  when  he  retreated 
from  New  Amsterdam.  Here  he  had  treasured  them 
up  like  buried  gold,  and  here  they  had  been  miracu 
lously  preserved  by  St.  Nicholas,  at  the  time  of  the 
conflagration  of  the  Roost. 

Here  then  did  old  Diedrich  Knickerbocker  take  up 
his  abode  for  a  time,  and  set  to  work  with  antiquarian 
zeal  to  decipher  these  precious  documents,  which,  like 
the  lost  books  of  Livy,  had  baffled  the  research  of  for 
mer  historians;  and  it  is  the  facts  drawn  from  these 
sources  which  give  his  work  the  preference,  in  point 
of  accuracy,  over  every  other  history. 

It  was  during  his  sojourn  in  this  eventful  neighbor 
hood  that  the  historian  is  supposed  to  have  picked  up 
many  of  those  legends,  which  have  since  been  given 
by  him  to  the  world,  or  found  among  his  papers.  Such 
was  the  legend  connected  with  the  old  Dutch  Church 
of  Sleepy  Hollow.  The  Church  itself  was  a  monu 
ment  of  by-gone  days.  It  had  been  built  in  the  early 
times  of  the  province.  A  tablet  over  the  portal  bore 
the  names  of  its  founders,  —  Frederick  Filipson,  a 
mighty  man  of  yore,  patroon  of  Yonkers,  and  his  wife 
Katrina  Van  Courtland,  of  the  Van  Courtlands  of 
Croton ;  a  powerful  family  connection,  —  with  one 
foot  resting  on  Spiting  Devil  Creek,  and  the  other  on 
the  Croton  River. 

Two  weathercocks,  with  the  initials  of  these  illus 
trious  personages,  graced  each  end  of  the  Church,  one 
perched  over  the  belfry,  the  other  over  the  chancel. 
As  usual  with  ecclesiastical  weathercocks,  each  pointed 
a  different  way ;  and  there  was  a  perpetual  contradic 
tion  between  them  on  all  points  of  windy  doctrine; 


WOLFERT'S  ROOST  17 

emblematic,  alas !  of  the  Christian  propensity  to  schism 
and  controversy. 

In  the  burying-ground  adjacent  to  the  Church,  re 
posed  the  earliest  fathers  of  a  wide  rural  neighbor 
hood.  Here  families  were  garnered  together,  side  by 
side,  in  long  platoons,  in  this  last  gathering  place  of 
kindred.  With  pious  hand  would  Diedrich  Knicker 
bocker  turn  down  the  weeds  and  brambles  which  had 
overgrown  the  tombstones,  to  decipher  inscriptions  in 
Dutch  and  English,  of  the  names  and  virtues  of  suc 
ceeding  generations  of  Van  Tassels,  Van  Warts,  and 
other  historical  worthies,  with  their  portraitures  faith 
fully  carved,  all  bearing  the  family  likeness  to  cherubs. 

The  congregation  in  those  days  was  of  a  truly  rural 
character.  City  fashions  had  not  as  yet  stole  up  to 
Sleepy  Hollow.  Dutch  sun-bonnets  and  honest  home 
spun  still  prevailed.  Everything  was  in  primitive  style, 
even  to  the  bucket  of  water  and  tin  cup  near  the  door 
in  summer,  to  assuage  the  thirst  caused  by  the  heat  of 
the  weather  or  the  drought  of  the  sermon. 

The  pulpit,  with  its  wide-spreading  sounding-board, 
and  the  communion-table,  curiously  carved,  had  each 
come  from  Holland  in  the  olden  time,  before  the  arts 
had  sufficiently  advanced  in  the  colony  for  such 
achievements.  Around  these  on  Sundays  would  be 
gathered  the  elders  of  the  church,  gray-headed  men, 
who  led  the  psalmody,  and  in  whom  it  would  be  difficult 
to  recognize  the  hard-riding  lads  of  yore,  who  scoured 
the  debatable  land  in  the  time  of  the  revolution. 

The  drowsy  influence  of  Sleepy  Hollow  was  apt  to 
breathe  into  this  sacred  edifice;  and  now  and  then  an 
elder  might  be  seen  with  his  handkerchief  over  his  face 
to  keep  off  the  flies,  and  apparently  listening  to  the 
dominie ;  but  really  sunk  into  a  summer  slumber,  lulled 
by  the  sultry  notes  of  the  locust  from  the  neighboring 
trees. 

And  now  a  word  or  two  about  Sleepy  Hollow,  which 


i8  WOLFERT'S  ROOST 

many  have  rashly  deemed  a  fanciful  creation,  like  the 
Lubberland  of  mariners.  It  was  probably  the  mystic 
and  dreamy  sound  of  the  name  which  first  tempted  the 
historian  of  the  Manhattoes  into  its  spellbound  mazes. 
As  he  entered,  all  nature  seemed  for  the  moment  to 
awake  from  its  slumbers  and  break  forth  in  gratula- 
tions.  The  quail  whistled  a  welcome  from  the  corn 
field;  the  loquacious  cat-bird  flew  from  bush  to  bush 
with  restless  wing  proclaiming  his  approach,  or  perked 
inquisitively  into  his  face  as  if  to  get  a  knowledge  of 
his  physiognomy.  The  woodpecker  tapped  a  tattoo  on 
the  hollow  apple-tree,  and  then  peered  round  the  trunk, 
as  if  asking  how  he  relished  the  salutation ;  while  the 
squirrel  scampered  along  the  fence,  whisking  his  tail 
over  his  head  by  way  of  a  huzza. 

Here  reigned  the  golden  mean  extolled  by  poets, 
in  which  no  gold  was  to  be  found  and  very  little  silver. 
The  inhabitants  of  the  Hollow  were  of  the  primitive 
stock,  and  had  intermarried  and  bred  in  and  in,  from 
the  earliest  time  of  the  province,  never  swarming  far 
from  the  parent  hive,  but  dividing  and  subdividing 
their  paternal  acres  as  they  swarmed. 

Here  were  small  farms,  each  having  its  little  por 
tion  of  meadow  and  cornfield;  its  orchard  of  gnarled 
and  sprawling  apple-trees;  its  garden,  in  which  the 
rose,  the  marigold,  and  hollyhock,  grew  sociably  with 
the  cabbage,  the  pea,  and  the  pumpkin;  each  had  its 
low-eaved  mansion  redundant  with  white-headed  chil 
dren  ;  with  an  old  hat  nailed  against  the  wall  for  the 
housekeeping  wren ;  the  coop  on  the  grass-plot,  where 
the  motherly  hen  clucked  round  with  her  vagrant 
brood :  each  had  its  stone  well,  with  a  moss-covered 
bucket  suspended  to  the  long  balancing-pole,  accord 
ing  to  antediluvian  hydraulics ;  while  within  doors  re 
sounded  the  eternal  hum  of  the  spinning-wheel. 

Many  were  the  great  historical  .facts  which  the 
worthy  Diedrich  collected  in  these  lowly  mansions, 


WOLFERT'S  ROOST  19 

and  patiently  would  he  sit  by  the  old  Dutch  house 
wives  with  a  child  on  his  knee,  or  a  purring  grimalkin 
on  his  lap,  listing  to  endless  ghost  stories  spun  forth 
to  the  humming  accompaniment  of  the  wheel. 

The  delighted  historian  pursued  his  explorations  far 
into  the  foldings  of  the  hills  where  the  Pocantico  winds 
its  wizard  stream  among  the  mazes  of  its  old  Indian 
haunts;  sometimes  running  darkly  in  pieces  of  wood 
land  beneath  balancing  sprays  of  beech  and  chestnut; 
sometimes  sparkling  between  grassy  borders  in  fresh, 
green  intervales;  here  and  there  receiving  the  tributes 
of  silver  rills  which  came  whimpering  down  the  hill 
sides  from  their  parent  springs. 

In  a  remote  part  of  the  Hollow,  where  the  Pocantico 
forced  its  way  down  rugged  rocks,  stood  Carl's  mill, 
the  haunted  house  of  the  neighborhood.  It  was  in 
deed  a  goblin-looking  pile;  shattered  and  time-worn, 
dismal  with  clanking  wheels  and  rushing  streams,  and 
all  kinds  of  uncouth  noises.  A  horse-shoe  nailed  to 
the  door  to  keep  off  witches,  seemed  to  have  lost  its 
power,  for  as  Diedrich  approached,  an  old  negro  thrust 
his  head  all  dabbled  with  flour  out  of  a  hole  above  the 
water-wheel,  and  grinned  and  rolled  his  eyes,  and  ap 
peared  to  be  the  very  hobgoblin  of  the  place.  Yet 
this  proved  to  be  the  great  historic  genius  of  the  Hol 
low,  abounding  in  that  valuable  information  never  to 
be  acquired  from  books.  Diedrich  Knickerbocker  soon 
discovered  his  merit.  They  had  long  talks  together 
seated  on  a  broken  millstone,  heedless  of  the  water  and 
the  clatter  of  the  mill ;  and  to  his  conference  with 
that  African  sage  many  attribute  the  surprising,  though 
true  story,  of  Ichabod  Crane  and  the  Headless  Horse 
man  of  Sleepy  Hollow.  We  refrain,  however,  from 
giving  farther  researches  of  the  historian  of  the  Man- 
hattoes  during  his  sojourn  at  the  Roost,  but  may  re 
turn  to  them  in  future  pages. 

Reader !  the  Roost  still  exists.    Time,  which  changes 


20  THE  BIRDS  OF  SPRING 

all  things,  is  slow  in  its  operations  on  a  Dutchman's 
dwelling.  The  stout  Jacob  Van  Tassel,  it  is  true,  sleeps 
with  his  fathers;  and  his  great  goose-gun  with  him: 
yet  his  stronghold  still  bears  the  impress  of  its  Dutch 
origin.  Odd  rumors  have  gathered  about  it,  as  they  are 
apt  to  do  about  old  mansions,  like  moss  and  weather- 
stains.  The  shade  of  Wolfert  Acker  still  walks  his 
unquiet  rounds  at  night  in  the  orchard;  and  a  white 
figure  has  now  and  then  been  seen  seated  at  a  window 
and  gazing  at  the  moon,  from  a  room  in  which  a  young 
lady  is  said  to  have  died  of  love  and  green  apples. 

Mementos  of  the  sojourn  of  Diedrich  Knicker 
bocker  are  still  cherished  at  the  Roost.  His  elbow- 
chair  and  antique  writing-desk  maintain  their  place  in 
the  room  he  occupied,  and  his  old  cocked-hat  still  hangs 
on  a  peg  against  the  wall. 


THE  BIRDS  OF  SPRING 

MY  quiet  residence  in  the  country,  aloof  from  fashion, 
politics,  and  the  money-market,  leaves  me  rather  at  a 
loss  for  occupation,  and  drives  me  occasionally  to  the 
study  of  nature,  and  other  low  pursuits.  Having  few 
neighbors,  also,  on  whom  to  keep  a  watch,  and  exer 
cise  my  habits  of  observation,  I  am  fain  to  amuse 
myself  with  prying  into  the  domestic  concerns  and 
peculiarities  of  the  animals  around  me;  and  during 
the  present  season  have  derived  considerable  enter 
tainment  from  certain  sociable  little  birds,  almost  the 
only  visitors  we  have  during  this  early  part  of  the  year. 
Those  who  have  passed  the  winter  in  the  country 
are  sensible  of  the  delightful  influences  that  accom 
pany  the  earliest  indications  of  spring;  and  of  these 
none  are  more  delightful  than  the  first  notes  of  the 
birds.  There  is  one  modest  little  sad-colored  bird, 


THE  BIRDS  OF  SPRING  21 

much  resembling  a  wren,  which  came  about  the  house 
just  on  the  skirts  of  winter,  when  not  a  blade  of  grass 
was  to  be  seen,  and  when  a  few  prematurely  warm 
days  had  given  a  flattering  foretaste  of  soft  weather. 
He  sang  early  in  the  dawning,  long  before  sunrise, 
and  late  in  the  evening,  just  before  the  closing  in  of 
night,  his  matin  and  his  vesper  hymns.  It  is  true  he 
sang  occasionally  throughout  the  day;  but  at  these 
still  hours  his  song  was  more  remarked.  He  sat  on 
a  leafless  tree,  just  before  the  window,  and  warbled 
forth  his  notes,  few  and  simple,  but  singularly  sweet, 
with  something  of  a  plaintive  tone  that  heightened  their 
effect. 

The  first  morning  that  he  was  heard  was  a  joyous 
one  among  the  young  folks  of  my  household.  The 
long,  death-like  sleep  of  winter  was  at  an  end ;  nature 
was  once  more  awakening;  they  now  promised  them 
selves  the  immediate  appearance  of  buds  and  blos 
soms.  I  was  reminded  of  the  tempest-tossed  crew  of 
Columbus,  when  after  their  long  dubious  voyage  the 
field-birds  came  singing  round  the  ship,  though  still 
far  at  sea,  rejoicing  them  with  the  belief  of  the  imme 
diate  proximity  of  land.  A  sharp  return  of  winter 
almost  silenced  my  little  songster,  and  dashed  the 
hilarity  of  the  household;  yet  still  he  poured  forth, 
now  and  then,  a  few  plaintive  notes,  between  the  frosty 
pipings  of  the  breeze,  like  gleams  of  sunshine  between 
wintry  clouds. 

I  have  consulted  my  book  of  ornithology  in  vain, 
to  find  out  the  name  of  this  kindly  little  bird,  who  cer 
tainly  deserves  honor  and  favor  far  beyond  his  modest 
pretensions.  He  comes  like  the  lowly  violet,  the  most 
unpretending,  but  welcomest  of  flowers,  breathing  the 
sweet  promise  of  the  early  year. 

Another  of  our  feathered  visitors,  who  follow  close 
upon  the  steps  of  winter,  is  the  Pe-wit,  or  Pe-wee,  or 
Phoebe-bird;  for  he  is  called  by  each  of  these  names, 


22  THE  BIRDS  OF  SPRING 

from  a  fancied  resemblance  to  the  sound  of  his  mo 
notonous  note.  He  is  a  sociable  little  being,  and  seeks 
the  habitation  of  man.  A  pair  of  them  have  built 
beneath  my  porch,  and  have  reared  several  broods  there 
for  two  years  past,  —  their  nest  being  never  disturbed. 
They  arrive  early  in  the  spring,  just  when  the  crocus 
and  the  snow-drop  begin  to  peep  forth.  Their  first 
chirp  spreads  gladness  through  the  house.  "  The 
Phoebe-birds  have  come ! "  is  heard  on  all  sides ;  they 
are  welcomed  back  like  members  of  the  family,  and 
speculations  are  made  upon  where  they  have  been,  and 
what  countries  they  have  seen,  during  their  long  ab 
sence.  Their  arrival  is  the  more  cheering,  as  it  is  pro 
nounced  by  the  old,  weather-wise  people  of  the  country 
the  sure  sign  that  the  severe  frosts  are  at  an  end, 
and  that  the  gardener  may  resume  his  labors  with 
confidence. 

About  this  time,  too,  arrives  the  blue-bird,  so  poeti 
cally  yet  truly  described  by  Wilson.  His  appearance 
gladdens  the  whole  landscape.  You  hear  his  soft 
warble  in  every  field.  He  sociably  approaches  your 
habitation,  and  takes  up  his  residence  in  your  vicinity. 
But  why  should  I  attempt  to  describe  him,  when  I  have 
Wilson's  own  graphic  verses  to  place  him  before  the 
reader  ? 

When  winter's  cold  tempests  and  snows  are  no  more, 

Green  meadows  and  brown  furrowed  fields  reappearing, 
The  fishermen  hauling  their  shad  to  the  shore, 

And  cloud-cleaving  geese  to  the  lakes  are  a-steering ; 
When  first  the  lone  butterfly  flits  on  the  wing, 

When  red  glow  the  maples,  so  fresh  and  so  pleasing, 
Oh  then  comes  the  blue-bird,  the  herald  of  spring, 

And  hails  with  his  warblings  the  charms  of  the  season. 

The  loud-piping  frogs  make  the  marshes  to  ring, 

Then  warm  glows  the  sunshine,  and  warm  grows  the  weather; 
The  blue  woodland  flowers  just  beginning  to  spring, 

And  spice-wood  and  sassafras  budding  together; 
Oh  then  to  your  gardens,  ye  housewives,  repair, 

Your  walks  border  up,  sow  and  plant  at  your  leisure; 
The  blue-bird  will  chant  from  his  box  such  an  air, 

That  all  your  hard  toils  will  seem  truly  a  pleasure ! 


THE  BIRDS  OF  SPRING  23 

He  flits  through  the  orchard,  he  visits  each  tree, 

The  red  flowering  peach,  and  the  apple's  sweet  blossom ; 
He  snaps  up  destroyers,  wherever  they  be, 

And  seizes  the  caitiffs  that  lurk  in  their  bosoms; 
He  drags  the  vile  grub  from  the  corn  it  devours, 

The  worms  from  the  webs  where  they  riot  and  welter ; 
His  song  and  his  services  freely  are  ours, 

And  all  that  he  asks  is,  in  summer  a  shelter. 

The  ploughman  is  pleased  when  he  gleans  in  his  train, 

Now  searching  the  furrows,  now  mounting  to  cheer  him; 
The  gard'ner  delights  in  his  sweet  simple  strain, 

And  leans  on  his  spade  to  survey  and  to  hear  him. 
The  slow,  lingering  schoolboys  forget  they  '11  be  chid, 

While  gazing  intent,  as  he  warbles  before  them 
In  mantle  of  sky-blue,  and  bosom  so  red, 

That  each  little  loiterer  seems  to  adore  him. 

The  happiest  bird  of  our  spring,  however,  and  one 
that  rivals  the  European  lark,  in  my  estimation,  is  the 
Bobolincon,  or  Bobolink,  as  he  is  commonly  called. 
He  arrives  at  that  choice  portion  of  our  year,  which, 
in  this  latitude,  answers  to  the  description  of  the  month 
of  May  so  often  given  by  the  poets.  With  us  it  begins 
about  the  middle  of  May,  and  lasts  until  nearly  the 
middle  of  June.  Earlier  than  this,  winter  is  apt  to 
return  on  its  traces,  and  to  blight  the  opening  beauties 
of  the  year;  and  later  than  this  begin  the  parching, 
and  panting,  and  dissolving  heats  of  summer.  But  in 
this  genial  interval,  nature  is  in  all  her  freshness  and 
fragrance ;  "  the  rains  are  over  and  gone,  the  flowers 
appear  upon  the  earth,  the  time  of  the  singing  of  birds 
is  come,  and  the  voice  of  the  turtle  is  heard  in  the 
land."  The  trees  are  now  in  their  fullest  foliage  and 
brightest  verdure;  the  woods  are  gay  with  the  clus 
tered  flowers  of  the  laurel ;  the  air  is  perfumed  by  the 
sweetbrier  and  the  wild  rose;  the  meadows  are  enam 
elled  with  clover-blossoms ;  while  the  young  apple,  the 
peach,  and  the  plum  begin  to  swell,  and  the  cherry  to 
glow,  among  the  green  leaves. 

This  is  the  chosen  season  of  revelry  of  the  Bobolink. 
He  comes  amidst  the  pomp  and  fragrance  of  the 


24  THE  BIRDS  OF  SPRING 

season;  his  life  seems  all  sensibility  and  enjoyment, 
all  song  and  sunshine.  He  is  to  be  found  in  the  soft 
bosoms  of  the  freshest  and  sweetest  meadows,  and  is 
most  in  song  when  the  clover  is  in  blossom.  He 
perches  on  the  topmost  twig  of  a  tree,  or  on  some  long, 
flaunting  weed,  and,  as  he  rises  and  sinks  with  the 
breeze,  pours  forth  a  succession  of  rich  tinkling  notes, 
—  crowding  one  upon  another,  like  the  outpouring 
melody  of  the  skylark,  and  possessing  the  same  rap 
turous  character.  Sometimes  he  pitches  from  the  sum 
mit  of  a  tree,  begins  his  song  as  soon  as  he  gets  upon 
the  wing,  and  flutters  tremulously  down  to  the  earth, 
as  if  overcome  with  ecstasy  at  his  own  music.  Some 
times  he  is  in  pursuit  of  his  paramour ;  always  in  full 
song,  as  if  he  would  win  her  by  his  melody ;  and  always 
with  the  same  appearance  of  intoxication  and  delight. 

Of  all  the  birds  of  our  groves  and  meadows,  the 
Bobolink  was  the  envy  of  my  boyhood.  He  crossed 
my  path  in  the  sweetest  weather,  and  the  sweetest 
season  of  the  year,  when  all  nature  called  to  the  fields, 
and  the  rural  feeling  throbbed  in  every  bosom;  but 
when  I,  luckless  urchin !  was  doomed  to  be  mewed  up, 
during  the  livelong  day,  in  that  purgatory  of  boyhood, 
a  school-room.  It  seemed  as  if  the  little  varlet  mocked 
at  me  as  he  flew  by  in  full  song,  and  sought  to  taunt 
me  with  his  happier  lot.  Oh,  how  I  envied  him!  No 
lessons,  no  task,  no  hateful  school;  nothing  but  holi 
day  frolic,  green  fields,  and  fine  weather.  Had  I  been 
then  more  versed  in  poetry,  I  might  have  addressed 
him  in  the  words  of  Logan  to  the  cuckoo,  — 

Sweet  bird !   thy  bower  is  ever  green, 

Thy  sky  is  ever  clear ; 
Thou  hast  no  sorrow  in  thy  note, 

No  winter  in  thy  year. 

Oh !  could  I  fly,  I  'd  fly  with  thee ; 

We  'd  make,  on  joyful  wing, 
Our  annual  visit  round  the  globe, 

Companions  of  the  spring! 


THE  BIRDS  OF  SPRING  25 

Further  observation  and  experience  have  given  me 
a  different  idea  of  this  little  feathered  voluptuary, 
which  I  will  venture  to  impart,  for  the  benefit  of  my 
schoolboy  readers,  who  may  regard  him  with  the  same 
unqualified  envy  and  admiration  which  I  once  indulged. 
I  have  shown  him,  only  as  I  saw  him  at  first,  in  what 
I  may  call  the  poetical  part  of  his  career,  when  he  in 
a  manner  devoted  himself  to  elegant  pursuits  and  en 
joyments,  and  was  a  bird  of  music,  and  song,  and  taste, 
and  sensibility,  and  refinement.  While  this  lasted,  he 
was  sacred  from  injury;  the  very  schoolboy  would 
not  fling  a  stone  at  him,  and  the  merest  rustic  would 
pause  to  listen  to  his  strain.  But  mark  the  difference. 
As  the  year  advances,  as  the  clover-blossoms  disappear, 
and  the  spring  fades  into  summer,  he  gradually  gives 
up  his  elegant  tastes  and  habits,  doffs  his  poetical  suit 
of  black,  assumes  a  russet  dusty  garb,  and  sinks  to  the 
gross  enjoyments  of  common  vulgar  birds.  His  notes 
no  longer  vibrate  on  the  ear;  he  is  stuffing  himself 
with  the  seeds  of  the  tall  weeds  on  which  he  lately 
swung  and  chanted  so  melodiously.  He  has  become 
a  bon  vivant,  a  gourmand;  with  him  now  there  is 
nothing  like  the  "  joys  of  the  table."  In  a  little  while 
he  grows  tired  of  plain,  homely  fare,  and  is  off  on  a 
gastronomical  tour  in  quest  of  foreign  luxuries.  We 
next  hear  of  him,  with  myriads  of  his  kind,  banqueting 
among  the  reeds  of  the  Delaware;  and  grown  corpu 
lent  with  good  feeding.  He  has  changed  his  name  in 
travelling.  Bobolincon  no  more,  —  he  is  the  Reed- 
bird  now,  the  much  sought-for  titbit  of  Pennsylvania 
epicures;  the  rival  in  unlucky  fame  of  the  ortolan! 
Wherever  he  goes,  pop !  pop !  pop !  every  rusty  firelock 
in  the  country  is  blazing  away.  He  sees  his  compan 
ions  falling  by  thousands  around  him. 

Does  he  take  warning  and  reform?  Alas,  not  he! 
Incorrigible  epicure!  again  he  wings  his  flight.  The 
rice-swamps  of  the  South  invite  him.  He  gorges  him- 


26  THE  CREOLE  VILLAGE 

self  among  them  almost  to  bursting;  he  can  scarcely  fly 
for  corpulency.  He  has  once  more  changed  his  name, 
and  is  now  the  famous  Rice-bird  of  the  Carolinas. 

Last  stage  of  his  career:  behold  him  spitted,  with 
dozens  of  his  corpulent  companions,  and  served  up, 
a  vaunted  dish,  on  the  table  of  some  Southern 
gastronome. 

Such  is  the  story  of  the  Bobolink;  once  spiritual, 
musical,  admired;  the  joy  of  the  meadows,  and  the 
favorite  bird  of  Spring;  finally,  a  gross  little  sensual 
ist,  who  expiates  his  sensuality  in  the  larder.  His 
story  contains  a  moral  worthy  the  attention  of  all  little 
birds  and  little  boys;  warning  them  to  keep  to  those 
refined  and  intellectual  pursuits  which  raised  him  to  so 
high  a  pitch  of  popularity  during  the  early  part  of  his 
career;  but  to  eschew  all  tendency  to  that  gross  and 
dissipated  indulgence  which  brought  this  mistaken 
little  bird  to  an  untimely  end. 

Which  is  all  at  present,  from  the  well-wisher  of 
little  boys  and  little  birds, 

/Jt*+^fa*€^C>1rf*^^ 


THE  CREOLE  VILLAGE 

A   SKETCH   FROM   A   STEAMBOAT 
[First  published  in  1837] 

IN  travelling  about  our  motley  country,  I  am  often 
reminded  of  Ariosto's  account  of  the  moon,  in  which 
the  good  paladin  Astolpho  found  everything  garnered 
up  that  had  been  lost  on  earth.  So  I  am  apt  to  imagine 
that  many  things  lost  in  the  Old  World  are  treasured 
up  in  the  New ;  having  been  handed  down  from  genera- 


THE  CREOLE  VILLAGE  27 

tion  to  generation,  since  the  early  days  of  the  colonies. 
A  European  antiquary,  therefore,  curious  in  his  re 
searches  after  the  ancient  and  almost  obliterated  cus 
toms  and  usages  of  his  country,  would  do  well  to  put 
himself  upon  the  track  of  some  early  band  of  emigrants, 
follow  them  across  the  Atlantic,  and  rummage  among 
their  descendants  on  our  shores. 

In  the  phraseology  of  New  England  might  be  found 
many  an  old  English  provincial  phrase,  long  since  ob 
solete  in  the  parent  country;  with  some  quaint  relics 
of  the  Roundheads;  while  Virginia  cherishes  peculi 
arities  characteristic  of  the  days  of  Elizabeth  and  Sir 
Walter  Raleigh. 

In  the  same  way,  the  sturdy  yeomanry  of  New 
Jersey  and  Pennsylvania  keep  up  many  usages  fading 
away  in  ancient  Germany;  while  many  an  honest, 
broad-bottomed  custom,  nearly  extinct  in  venerable 
Holland,  may  be  found  flourishing  in  pristine  vigor 
and  luxuriance  in  Dutch  villages,  on  the  banks  of  the 
Mohawk  and  the  Hudson. 

In  no  part  of  our  country,  however,  are  the  customs 
and  peculiarities  imported  from  the  Old  World  by  the 
earlier  settlers  kept  up  with  more  fidelity  than  in  the 
little,  poverty-stricken  villages  of  Spanish  and  French 
origin,  which  border  the  rivers  of  ancient  Louisiana. 
Their  population  is  generally  made  up  of  the  descend 
ants  of  those  nations,  married  and  interwoven  together, 
and  occasionally  crossed  with  a  slight  dash  of  the 
Indian.  The  French  character,  however,  floats  on  top, 
as,  from  its  buoyant  qualities,  it  is  sure  to  do,  whenever 
it  forms  a  particle,  however  small,  of  an  intermixture. 

In  these  serene  and  dilapidated  villages,  art  and 
nature  stand  still,  and  the  world  forgets  to  turn  round. 
The  revolutions  that  distract  other  parts  of  this  mu 
table  planet,  reach  not  here,  or  pass  over  without  leav 
ing  any  trace.  The  fortunate  inhabitants  have  none 
of  that  public  spirit  which  extends  its  cares  beyond  its 


28  THE  CREOLE  VILLAGE 

horizon,  and  imports  trouble  and  perplexity  from  all 
quarters  in  newspapers.  In  fact,  newspapers  are  al 
most  unknown  in  these  villages;  and,  as  French  is 
the  current  language,  the  inhabitants  have  little  com 
munity  of  opinion  with  their  republican  neighbors. 
They  retain,  therefore,  their  old  habits  of  passive 
obedience  to  the  decrees  of  government,  as  though 
they  still  lived  under  the  absolute  sway  of  colonial 
commandants,  instead  of  being  part  and  parcel  of 
the  sovereign  people,  and  having  a  voice  in  public 
legislation. 

A  few  aged  men,  who  have  grown  gray  on  their 
hereditary  acres,  and  are  of  the  good  old  colonial  stock, 
exert  a  patriarchal  sway  in  all  matters  of  public  and 
private  import ;  their  opinions  are  considered  oracular, 
and  their  word  is  law. 

The  inhabitants,  moreover,  have  none  of  that  eager 
ness  for  gain,  and  rage  for  improvement,  which  keep 
our  people  continually  on  the  move,  and  our  country 
towns  incessantly  in  a  state  of  transition.  There  the 
magic  phrases,  "  town  lots,"  "  water  privileges,"  "  rail 
roads,"  and  other  comprehensive  and  soul-stirring 
words  from  the  speculator's  vocabulary,  are  never 
heard.  The  residents  dwell  in  the  houses  built  by  their 
forefathers,  without  thinking  of  enlarging  or  modern 
izing  them,  or  pulling  them  down  and  turning  them 
into  granite  stores.  The  trees  under  which  they  have 
been  born,  and  have  played  in  infancy,  flourish  un 
disturbed;  though,  by  cutting  them  down,  they  might 
open  new  streets,  and  put  money  in  their  pockets.  In 
a  word,  the  almighty  dollar,  that  great  object  of  uni 
versal  devotion  throughout  our  land,  seems  to  have 
no  genuine  devotees  in  these  peculiar  villages;  and 
unless  some  of  its  missionaries  penetrate  there,  and 
erect  banking-houses  and  other  pious  shrines,  there  is 
no  knowing  how  long  the  inhabitants  may  remain  in 
their  present  state  of  contented  poverty. 


THE  CREOLE  VILLAGE  29 

In  descending  one  of  our  great  western  rivers  in  a 
steamboat,  I  met  with  two  worthies  from  one  of  these 
villages,  who  had  been  on  a  distant  excursion,  the 
longest  they  had  ever  made,  as  they  seldom  ventured 
far  from  home.  One  was  the  great  man,  or  Grand 
Seigneur  of  the  village ;  not  that  he  enjoyed  any  legal 
privileges  or  power  there,  everything  of  the  kind  hav 
ing  been  done  away  when  the  province  was  ceded  by 
France  to  the  United  States.  His  sway  over  his  neigh 
bors  was  merely  one  of  custom  and  convention,  out  of 
deference  to  his  family.  Beside, '  he  was  worth  full 
fifty  thousand  dollars,  an  amount  almost  equal,  in  the 
imaginations  of  the  villagers,  to  the  treasures  of  King 
Solomon. 

This  very  substantial  old  gentleman,  though  of  the 
fourth  or  fifth  generation  in  this  country,  retained  the 
true  Gallic  feature  and  deportment,  and  reminded  me 
of  one  of  those  provincial  potentates  that  are  to  be 
met  with  in  the  remote  parts  of  France.  He  was  of  a 
large  frame,  a  gingerbread  complexion,  strong  fea 
tures,  eyes  that  stood  out  like  glass  knobs,  and  a  promi 
nent  nose,  which  he  frequently  regaled  from  a  gold 
snuff-box,  and  occasionally  blew  with  a  colored  hand 
kerchief,  until  it  sounded  like  a  trumpet. 

He  was  attended  by  an  old  negro,  as  black  as  ebony, 
with  a  huge  mouth,  in  a  continual  grin;  evidently  a 
privileged  and  favorite  servant,  who  had  grown  up  and 
grown  old  with  him.  He  was  dressed  in  Creole  style, 
with  white  jacket  and  trousers,  a  stiff  shirt-collar,  that 
threatened  to  cut  off  his  ears,  a  bright  Madras  hand 
kerchief  tied  round  his  head,  and  large  gold  ear-rings. 
He  was  the  politest  negro  I  met  with  in  a  western 
tour,  and  that  is  saying  a  great  deal,  for,  excepting 
the  Indians,  the  negroes  are  the  most  gentlemanlike 
personages  to  be  met  with  in  those  parts.  It  is  true 
they  differ  from  the  Indians  in  being  a  little  extra 
polite  and  complimentary.  He  was  also  one  of  the 


30  THE  CREOLE  VILLAGE 

merriest ;  and  here,  too,  the  negroes,  however  we  may 
deplore  their  unhappy  condition,  have  the  advantage  of 
their  masters.  The  whites  are,  in  general,  too  free 
and  prosperous  to  be  merry.  The  cares  of  maintaining 
their  rights  and  liberties,  adding  to  their  wealth,  and 
making  presidents,  engross  all  their  thoughts  and  dry 
up  all  the  moisture  of  their  souls.  If  you  hear  a  broad, 
hearty,  devil-may-care  laugh,  be  assured  it  is  a  negro's. 

Beside  this  African  domestic,  the  seigneur  of  the 
village  had  another  no  less  cherished  and  privileged 
attendant.  This  was  a  huge  dog,  of  the  mastiff  breed, 
with  a  deep,  hanging  mouth,  and  a  look  of  surly  grav 
ity.  He  walked  about  the  cabin  with  the  air  of  a  dog 
perfectly  at  home,  and  who  had  paid  for  his  passage. 
At  dinner-time  he  took  his  seat  beside  his  master,  giv 
ing  him  a  glance  now  and  then  out  of  a  corner  of  his 
eye,  which  bespoke  perfect  confidence  that  he  would 
not  be  forgotten.  Nor  was  he.  Every  now  and  then 
a  huge  morsel  would  be  thrown  to  him,  peradventure 
the  half-picked  leg  of  a  fowl,  which  he  would  receive 
with  a  snap  like  the  springing  of  a  steel  trap,  —  one 
gulp,  and  all  was  down ;  and  a  glance  of  the  eye  told 
his  master  that  he  was  ready  for  another  consignment. 

The  other  village  worthy,  travelling  in  company 
with  the  seigneur,  was  of  a  totally  different  stamp. 
Small,  thin,  and  weazen-faced,  as  Frenchmen  are  apt 
to  be  represented  in  caricature,  with  a  bright,  squirrel- 
like  eye,  and  a  gold  ring  in  his  ear.  His  dress  was 
flimsy,  and  sat  loosely  on  his  frame,  and  he  had  alto 
gether  the  look  of  one  with  but  little  coin  in  his  pocket. 
Yet,  though  one  of  the  poorest,  I  was  assured  he  was 
one  of  the  merriest  and  most  popular  personages  in 
his  native  village. 

Compere  Martin,  as  he  was  commonly  called,  was 
the  factotum  of  the  place,  —  sportsman,  schoolmaster, 
and  land-surveyor.  He  could  sing,  dance,  and,  above 
all,  play  on  the  fiddle,  an  invaluable  accomplishment  in 


an  old  French  Creole  village,  for  the  inhabitants  have 
a  hereditary  love  for  balls  and  fetes.  If  they  work 
but  little,  they  dance  a  great  deal;  and  a  fiddle  is  the 
joy  of  their  heart. 

What  had  sent  Compere  Martin  travelling  with  the 
Grand  Seigneur  I  could  not  learn.  He  evidently  looked 
up  to  him  with  great  deference,  and  was  assiduous  in 
rendering  him  petty  attentions;  from  which  I  con 
cluded  that  he  lived  at  home  upon  the  crumbs  which 
fell  from  his  table.  He  was  gayest  when  out  of  his 
sight,  and  had  his  song  and  his  joke  when  forward 
among  the  deck  passengers;  but,  altogether,  Compere 
Martin  was  out  of  his  element  on  board  of  a  steam 
boat.  He  was  quite  another  being,  I  am  told,  when  at 
home  in  his  own  village. 

Like  his  opulent  fellow-traveller,  he  too  had  his 
canine  follower  and  retainer,  —  and  one  suited  to  his 
different  fortunes,  —  one  of  the  civilest,  most  un 
offending  little  dogs  in  the  world.  Unlike  the  lordly 
mastiff,  he  seemed  to  think  he  had  no  right  on  board 
of  the  steamboat;  if  you  did  but  look  hard  at  him,  he 
would  throw  himself  upon  his  back,  and  lift  up  his  legs, 
as  if  imploring  mercy. 

At  table  he  took  his  seat  a  little  distance  from  his 
master ;  not  with  the  bluff,  confident  air  of  the  mastiff, 
but  quietly  and  diffidently;  his  head  on  one  side,  with 
one  ear  dubiously  slouched,  the  other  hopefully  cocked 
up;  his  under-teeth  projecting  beyond  his  black  nose, 
and  his  eye  wistfully  following  each  morsel  that  went 
into  his  master's  mouth. 

If  Compere  Martin  now  and  then  should  venture  to 
abstract  a  morsel  from  his  plate,  to  give  to  his  humble 
companion,  it  was  edifying  to  see  with  what  diffidence 
the  exemplary  little  animal  would  take  hold  of  it,  with 
the  very  tip  of  his  teeth,  as  if  he  would  almost  rather 
not,  or  was  fearful  of  taking  too  great  a  liberty.  And 
then  with  what  decorum  would  he  eat  it !  How  many 


32  THE  CREOLE  VILLAGE 

efforts  would  he  make  in  swallowing  it,  as  if  it  stuck 
in  his  throat;  with  what  daintiness  would  he  lick  his 
lips ;  and  then  with  what  an  air  of  thankfulness  would 
he  resume  his  seat,  with  his  teeth  once  more  projecting 
beyond  his  nose,  and  an  eye  of  humble  expectation 
fixed  upon  his  master. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  when  the  steamboat 
stopped  at  the  village  which  was  the  residence  of  these 
worthies.  It  stood  on  the  high  bank  of  the  river,  and 
bore  traces  of  having  been  a  frontier  trading-post. 
There  were  the  remains  of  stockades  that  once  pro 
tected  it  from  the  Indians,  and  the  houses  were  in  the 
ancient  Spanish  and  French  colonial  taste,  the  place 
having  been  successively  under  the  domination  of  both 
those  nations  prior  to  the  cession  of  Louisiana  to  the 
United  States. 

The  arrival  of  the  seigneur  of  fifty  thousand  dollars, 
and  his  humble  companion,  Compere  Martin,  had  evi 
dently  been  looked  forward  to  as  an  event  in  the  vil 
lage.  Numbers  of  men,  women,  and  children,  white, 
yellow,  and  black,  were  collected  on  the  river  bank; 
most  of  them  clad  in  old-fashioned  French  garments, 
and  their  heads  decorated  with  colored  handkerchiefs, 
or  white  nightcaps.  The  moment  the  steamboat  came 
within  sight  and  hearing,  there  was  a  waving  of  hand 
kerchiefs,  and  a  screaming  and  bawling  of  salutations 
and  felicitations,  that  baffle  all  description. 

The  old  gentleman  of  fifty  thousand  dollars  was 
received  by  a  train  of  relatives,  and  friends,  and  chil 
dren,  and  grandchildren,  whom  he  kissed  on  each 
cheek,  and  who  formed  a  procession  in  his  rear,  with  a 
legion  of  domestics,  of  all  ages,  following  him  to  a 
large,  old-fashioned  French  house,  that  domineered 
over  the  village. 

His  black  valet  de  chambre,  in  white  jacket  and 
trousers,  and  gold  ear-rings,  was  met  on  the  shore  by 
a  boon,  though  rustic  companion,  a  tall  negro  fellow, 


Drawn  by  E.  W.  Kemble. 


THE    MASTER. 


THE  CREOLE  VILLAGE  33 

with  a  long1,  good-humored  face,  and  the  profile  of  a 
horse,  which  stood  out  from  beneath  a  narrow-rimmed 
straw  hat,  stuck  on  the  back  of  his  head.  The  explo 
sions  of  laughter  of  these  two  varlets  on  meeting  and 
exchanging  compliments,  were  enough  to  electrify  the 
country  round. 

The  most  hearty  reception,  however,  was  that  given 
to  Compere  Martin.  Everybody,  young  and  old, 
hailed  him  before  he  got  to  land.  Everybody  had  a 
joke  for  Compere  Martin,  and  Compere  Martin  had  a 
joke  for  everybody.  Even  his  little  dog  appeared  to 
partake  of  his  popularity,  and  to  be  caressed  by  every 
hand.  Indeed,  he  was  quite  a  different  animal  the 
moment  he  touched  the  land.  Here  he  was  at  home; 
here  he  was  of  consequence.  He  barked,  he  leaped, 
he  frisked  about  his  old  friends,  and  then  would  skim 
round  the  place  in  a  wide  circle,  as  if  mad. 

I  traced  Compere  Martin  and  his  little  dog  to  their 
home.  It  was  an  old  ruinous  Spanish  house,  of  large 
dimensions,  with  verandas  overshadowed  by  ancient 
elms.  The  house  had  probably  been  the  residence,  in 
old  times,  of  the  Spanish  commandant.  In  one  wing 
of  this  crazy,  but  aristocratical  abode,  was  nestled  the 
family  of  my  fellow-traveller;  for  poor  devils  are  apt 
to  be  magnificently  clad  and  lodged,  in  the  cast-off 
clothes  and  abandoned  palaces  of  the  great  and  wealthy. 

The  arrival  of  Compere  Martin  was  welcomed  by  a 
legion  of  women,  children,  and  mongrel  curs ;  and,  as 
poverty  and  gayety  generally  go  hand-in-hand  among 
the  French  and  their  descendants,  the  crazy  mansion 
soon  resounded  with  loud  gossip  and  light-hearted 
laughter. 

As  the  steamboat  paused  a  short  time  at  the  village, 
I  took  occasion  to  stroll  about  the  place.  Most  of  the 
houses  were  in  the  French  taste,  with  casements  and 
rickety  verandas,  but  most  of  them  in  flimsy  and  ruin 
ous  condition.  All  the  wagons,  ploughs,  and  other 

3 


34  THE  CREOLE  VILLAGE 

utensils  about  the  place  were  of  ancient  and  inconven 
ient  Gallic  construction,  such  as  had  been  brought  from 
France  in  the  primitive  days  of  the  colony.  The  very 
looks  of  the  people  reminded  me  of  the  villages  of 
France. 

From  one  of  the  houses  came  the  hum  of  a  spinning- 
wheel,  accompanied  by  a  scrap  of  an  old  French  chan 
son,  which  I  have  heard  many  a  time  among  the 
peasantry  of  Languedoc,  doubtless  a  traditional  song, 
brought  over  by  the  first  French  emigrants,  and  handed 
down  from  generation  to  generation. 

Half  a  dozen  young  lasses  emerged  from  the  adja 
cent  dwellings,  reminding  me,  by  their  light  step  and 
gay  costume,  of  scenes  in  ancient  France,  where  taste 
in  dress  comes  natural  to  every  class  of  females.  The 
trim  bodice  and  colored  petticoat,  and  little  apron, 
with  its  pockets  to  receive  the  hands  when  in  an  atti 
tude  for  conversation ;  the  colored  kerchief  wound 
tastefully  round  the  head,  with  a  coquettish  knot  perk 
ing  above  one  ear;  and  the  neat  slipper  and  tight- 
drawn  stocking,  with  its  braid  of  narrow  ribbon  em 
bracing  the  ankle  where  it  peeps  from  its  mysterious 
curtain.  It  is  from  this  ambush  that  Cupid  sends  his 
most  inciting  arrows. 

While  I  was  musing  upon  the  recollections  thus  ac 
cidentally  summoned  up,  I  heard  the  sound  of  a  fiddle 
from  the  mansion  of  Compere  Martin,  the  signal,  no 
doubt,  for  a  joyous  gathering.  I  was  disposed  to  turn 
my  steps  thither,  and  witness  the  festivities  of  one  of 
the  very  few  villages  I  had  met  with  in  my  wide  tour 
that  was  yet  poor  enough  to  be  merry;  but  the  bell  of 
the  steamboat  summoned  me  to  reembark. 

As  we  swept  away  from  the  shore,  I  cast  back  a 
wistful  eye  upon  the  moss-grown  roofs  and  ancient 
elms  of  the  village,  and  prayed  that  the  inhabitants 
might  long  retain  their  happy  ignorance,  their  absence 
of  all  enterprise  and  improvement,  their  respect  for  the 


THE  CREOLE  VILLAGE  3-5 

fiddle,  and  their  contempt  for  the  almighty  dollar.1 
I  fear,  however,  my  prayer  is  doomed  to  be  of  no  avail. 
In  a  little  while  the  steamboat  whirled  me  to  an 
American  town,  just  springing  into  bustling  and 
prosperous  existence. 

The  surrounding  forest  had  been  laid  out  in  town 
lots;  frames  of  wooden  buildings  were  rising  from 
among  stumps  and  burnt  trees.  The  place  already 
boasted  a  court-house,  a  jail,  and  two  banks,  all  built 
of  pine  boards,  on  the  model  of  Grecian  temples. 
There  were  rival  hotels,  rival  churches,  and  rival  news 
papers;  together  with  the  usual  number  of  judges  and 
generals  and  governors;  not  to  speak  of  doctors  by 
the  dozen,  and  lawyers  by  the  score. 

The  place,  I  was  told,  was  in  an  astonishing  career 
of  improvement,  with  a  canal  and  two  railroads  in 
embryo.  Lots  doubled  in  price  every  week ;  everybody 
was  speculating  in  land;  everybody  was  rich;  and 
everybody  was  growing  richer.  The  community, 
however,  was  torn  to  pieces  by  new  doctrines  in 
'religion  and  in  political  economy;  there  were  camp- 
meetings,  and  agrarian  meetings;  and  an  election 
was  at  hand,  which,  it  was  expected,  would  throw 
the  whole  country  into  a  paroxysm. 

Alas!  with  such  an  enterprising  neighbor,  what 
is  to  become  of  the  poor  little  Creole  village! 

1  This  phrase,  used  for  the  first  time  in  this  sketch,  has  since 
passed  into  current  circulation,  and  by  some  has  been  questioned 
as  savoring  of  irreverence.  The  author,  therefore,  owes  it  to  his 
orthodoxy  to  declare  that  no  irreverence  was  intended  even  to  the 
dollar  itself ;  which  he  is  aware  is  daily  becoming  more  and  more 
an  object  of  worship. 


36  MOUNTJOY 


MOUNTJOY 

OR,  SOME  PASSAGES  OUT  OF  THE  LIFE  OF  A 
CASTLE-BUILDER 

I  WAS  born  among  romantic  scenery,  in  one  of  the 
wildest  parts  of  the  Hudson,  which  at  that  time  was 
not  so  thickly  settled  as  at  present.  My  father  was 
descended  from  one  of  the  old  Huguenot  families,  that 
came  over  to  this  country  on  the  revocation  of  the 
Edict  of  Nantz.  He  lived  in  a  style  of  easy,  rural  in 
dependence,  on  a  patrimonial  estate  that  had  been  for 
two  or  three  generations  in  the  family.  He  was  an 
indolent,  good-natured  man,  took  the  world  as  it  went, 
and  had  a  kind  of  laughing  philosophy,  that  parried  all 
rubs  and  mishaps,  and  served  him  in  the  place  of  wis 
dom.  This  was  the  part  of  his  character  least  to  my 
taste ;  for  I  was  of  an  enthusiastic,  excitable  tempera 
ment,  prone  to  kindle  up  with  new  schemes  and  pro 
jects,  and  he  was  apt  to  dash  my  sallying  enthusiasm 
by  some  unlucky  joke;  so  that  whenever  I  was  in  a 
glow  with  any  sudden  excitement,  I  stood  in  mortal 
dread  of  his  good  humor. 

Yet  he  indulged  me  in  every  vagary,  for  I  was  an 
only  son,  and  of  course  a  personage  of  importance  in 
the  household.  I  had  two  sisters  older  than  myself, 
and  one  younger.  The  former  were  educated  at  New 
York,  under  the  eye  of  a  maiden  aunt ;  the  latter  re 
mained  at  home,  and  was  my  cherished  playmate,  the 
companion  of  my  thoughts.  We  were  two  imaginative 
little  beings,  of  quick  susceptibility,  and  prone  to  see 
wonders  and  mysteries  in  everything  around  us. 
Scarce  had  we  learned  to  read,  when  our  mother  made 


MOUNTJOY  37 

us  holiday  presents  of  all  the  nursery  literature  of  the 
day,  which  at  that  time  consisted  of  little  books  cov 
ered  with  gilt  paper,  adorned  with  "  cuts,"  and  rilled 
with  tales  of  fairies,  giants,  and  enchanters.  What 
draughts  of  delightful  fiction  did  we  then  inhale !  My 
sister  Sophy  was  of  a  soft  and  tender  nature.  She 
would  weep  over  the  woes  of  the  Children  in  the 
Wood,  or  quake  at  the  dark  romance  of  Blue-Beard, 
and  the  terrible  mysteries  of  the  blue  chamber.  But  I 
was  all  for  enterprise  and  adventure.  I  burned  to 
emulate  the  deeds  of  that  heroic  prince  who  delivered 
the  white  cat  from  her  enchantment ;  or  he  of  no  less 
royal  blood  and  doughty  emprise,  who  broke  the 
charmed  slumber  of  the  Beauty  in  the  Wood ! 

The  house  in  which  we  lived  was  just  the  kind  of 
place  to  foster  such  propensities.  It  was  a  venerable 
mansion,  half  villa,  half  farm-house.  The  oldest  part 
was  of  stone,  with  loopholes  for  musketry,  having 
served  as  a  family  fortress  in  the  time  of  the  Indians. 
To  this  there  had  been  made  various  additions,  some 
of  brick,  some  of  wood,  according  to  the  exigencies  of 
the  moment,  so  that  it  was  full  of  nooks  and  crooks, 
and  chambers  of  all  sorts  and  sizes.  It  was  buried 
among  willows,  elms,  and  cherry-trees,  and  surrounded 
with  roses  and  hollyhocks,  with  honeysuckle  and 
sweetbrier  clambering  about  every  window.  A  brood 
of  hereditary  pigeons  sunned  themselves  upon  the  roof ; 
hereditary  swallows  and  martins  built  about  the  eaves 
and  chimneys;  and  hereditary  bees  hummed  about 
the  flower-beds. 

Under  the  influence  of  our  story-books  every  object 
around  us  now  assumed  a  new  character,  and  a 
charmed  interest.  The  wild  flowers  were  no  longer 
the  mere  ornaments  of  the  fields,  or  the  resorts  of 
the  toilful  bee ;  they  were  the  lurking-places  of  fairies. 
We  would  watch  the  humming-bird,  as  it  hovered 
around  the  trumpet-creeper  at  our  porch,  and  the  but* 


38  MOUNTJOY 

terfly  as  it  flitted  up  into  the  blue  air,  above  the  sunny 
tree-tops,  and  fancy  them  some  of  the  tiny  beings 
from  fairy  land.  I  would  call  to  mind  all  that  I  had 
read  of  Robin  Goodfellow,  and  his  power  of  transfor 
mation.  O  how  I  envied  him  that  power!  How  I 
longed  to  be  able  to  compress  my  form  into  utter  little 
ness,  to  ride  the  bold  dragon-fly,  swing  on  the  tall 
bearded  grass,  follow  the  ant  into  his  subterraneous 
habitation,  or  dive  into  the  cavernous  depths  of  the 
honeysuckle ! 

While  I  was  yet  a  mere  child,  I  was  sent  to  a  daily 
school,  about  two  miles  distant.  The  school-house  was 
on  the  edge  of  a  wood,  close  by  a  brook  overhung  with 
birches,  alders,  and  dwarf-willows.  We  of  the  school 
who  lived  at  some  distance  came  with  our  dinners  put 
up  in  little  baskets.  In  the  intervals  of  school  hours, 
we  would  gather  round  a  spring,  under  a  tuft  of  hazel- 
bushes,  and  have  a  kind  of  picnic;  interchanging  the 
rustic  dainties  with  which  our  provident  mothers  had 
fitted  us  out.  Then,  when  our  joyous  repast  was  over, 
and  my  companions  were  disposed  for  play,  I  would 
draw  forth  one  of  my  cherished  story-books,  stretch 
myself  on  the  greensward,  and  soon  lose  myself  in  its 
bewitching  contents. 

I  became  an  oracle  among  my  schoolmates,  on  ac 
count  of  my  superior  erudition,  and  soon  imparted  to 
them  the  contagion  of  my  infected  fancy.  Often  in 
the  evening,  after  school  hours,  we  would  sit  on  the 
trunk  of  some  fallen  tree  in  the  woods,  and  vie  with 
each  other  in  telling  extravagant  stories,  until  the  whip- 
poor-will  began  his  nightly  moaning,  and  the  fire-flies 
sparkled  in  the  gloom.  Then  came  the  perilous  jour 
ney  homeward.  What  delight  we  would  take  in  get 
ting  up  wanton  panics,  in  some  dusky  part  of  the 
wood;  scampering  like  frightened  deer,  pausing  to 
take  breath,  renewing  the  panic,  and  scampering  off 
again,  wild  with  fictitious  terror! 


MOUNTJOY  39 

Our  greatest  trial  was  to  pass  a  dark,  lonely  pool, 
covered  with  pond-lilies,  peopled  with  bull-frogs  and 
water-snakes,  and  haunted  by  two  white  cranes.  Oh! 
the  terrors  of  that  pond !  How  our  little  hearts  would 
beat,  as  we  approached  it;  what  fearful  glances  we 
would  throw  around!  And  if  by  chance  a  plash  of  a 
wild  duck,  or  the  guttural  twang  of  a  bull-frog,  struck 
our  ears,  as  we  stole  quietly  by  —  away  we  sped,  nor 
paused  until  completely  out  of  the  woods.  Then,  when 
I  reached  home,  what  a  world  of  adventures  and 
imaginary  terrors  would  I  have  to  relate  to  my  sister 
Sophy ! 

As  I  advanced  in  years,  this  turn  of  mind  increased 
upon  me,  and  became  more  confirmed.  I  abandoned 
myself  to  the  impulses  of  a  romantic  imagination, 
which  controlled  my  studies,  and  gave  a  bias  to  all  my 
habits.  My  father  observed  me  continually  with  a 
book  in  my  hand,  and  satisfied  himself  that  I  was  a 
profound  student ;  but  what  were  my  studies  ?  Works 
of  fiction,  tales  of  chivalry,  voyages  of  discovery, 
travels  in  the  East;  everything,  in  short,  that  partook 
of  adventure  and  romance.  I  well  remember  with  what 
zest  I  entered  upon  that  part  of  my  studies  which 
treated  of  the  heathen  mythology,  and  particularly 
of  the  sylvan  deities.  Then  indeed  my  school-books 
became  dear  to  me.  The  neighborhood  was  well  cal 
culated  to  foster  the  reveries  of  a  mind  like  mine.  It 
abounded  with  solitary  retreats,  wild  streams,  solemn 
forests,  and  silent  valleys.  I  would  ramble  about  for 
a  whole  day,  with  a  volume  of  Ovid's  Metamorphoses 
in  my  pocket,  and  work  myself  into  a  kind  of  self- 
delusion,  so  as  to  identify  the  surrounding  scenes  with 
those  of  which  I  had  just  been  reading.  I  would  loiter 
about  a  brook  that  glided  through  the  shadowy  depths 
of  the  forest,  picturing  it  to  myself  the  haunt  of 
Naiades.  I  would  steal  round  some  bushy  copse  that 
opened  upon  a  glade,  as  if  I  expected  to  come  suddenly 


40  MOUNTJOY 

upon  Diana  and  her  nymphs;  or  to  behold  Pan  and 
his  satyrs  bounding,  with  whoop  and  halloo,  through 
the  woodland.  I  would  throw  myself,  during  the 
panting  heats  of  a  summer  noon,  under  the  shade  of 
some  wide-spreading  tree,  and  muse  and  dream  away 
the  hours,  in  a  state  of  mental  intoxication.  I  drank 
in  the  very  light  of  day,  as  nectar,  and  my  soul  seemed 
to  bathe  with  ecstasy  in  the  deep  blue  of  a  summer 
sky. 

In  these  wanderings  nothing  occurred  to  jar  my  feel 
ings,  or  bring  me  back  to  the  realities  of  life.  There  is 
a  repose  in  our  mighty  forests  that  gives  full  scope  to 
the  imagination.  Now  and  then  I  would  hear  the 
distant  sound  of  the  woodcutter's  axe,  or  the  crash  of 
some  tree  which  he  had  laid  low ;  but  these  noises, 
echoing  along  the  quiet  landscape,  could  easily  be 
wrought  by  fancy  into  harmony  with  its  illusions.  In 
general,  however,  the  woody  recesses  of  the  neighbor 
hood  were  peculiarly  wild  and  unfrequented.  I  could 
ramble  for  a  whole  day.  without  coming  upon  any 
traces  of  cultivation.  The  partridge  of  the  wood 
scarcely  seemed  to  shun  my  path,  and  the  squirrel, 
from  his  nut-tree,  would  gaze  at  me  for  an  instant, 
with  sparkling  eye,  as  if  wondering  at  the  unwonted 
intrusion. 

I  cannot  help  dwelling  on  this  delicious  period  of  my 
life;  when  as  yet  I  had  known  no  sorrow,  nor  ex 
perienced  any  worldly  care.  I  have  since  studied 
much,  both  of  books  and  men,  and  of  course  have 
grown  too  wise  to  be  so  easily  pleased;  yet  with  all 
my  wisdom,  I  must  confess  I  look  back  with  a  secret 
feeling  of  regret  to  the  days  of  happy  ignorance, 
before  I  had  begun  to  be  a  philosopher. 

It  must  be  evident  that  I  was  in  a  hopeful  training, 
for  one  who  was  to  descend  into  the  arena  of  life,  and 
wrestle  with  the  world.  The  tutor,  also,  who  superin 
tended  my  studies,  in  the  more  advanced  stage  of  my 


MOUNTJOY  41 

education,  was  just  fitted  to  complete  the  fata  mor 
gana  which  was  forming  in  my  mind.  His  name  was 
Glencoe.  He  was  a  pale,  melancholy-looking  man, 
about  forty  years  of  age;  a  native  of  Scotland,  lib 
erally  educated,  and  who  had  devoted  himself  to  the 
instruction  of  youth,  from  taste  rather  than  necessity; 
for,  as  he  said,  he  loved  the  human  heart,  and  delighted 
to  study  it  in  its  earlier  impulses.  My  two  elder  sisters, 
having  returned  home  from  a  city  boarding-school, 
were  likewise  placed  under  his  care,  to  direct  their 
reading  in  history  and  belles-lettres. 

We  all  soon  became  attached  to  Glencoe.  It  is  true 
we  were  at  first  somewhat  prepossessed  against  him. 
His  meagre,  pallid  countenance,  his  broad  pronunci 
ation,  his  inattention  to  the  little  forms  of  society,  and 
an  awkward  and  embarrassed  manner,  on  first  acquaint 
ance,  were  much  against  him ;  but  we  soon  discovered 
that  under  this  unpromising  exterior  existed  the  kindest 
urbanity,  the  warmest  sympathies,  the  most  enthusi 
astic  benevolence.  His  mind  was  ingenious  and  acute. 
His  reading  had  been  various,  but  more  abstruse  than 
profound;  his  memory  was  stored,  on  all  subjects, 
with  facts,  theories,  and  quotations,  and  crowded  with 
crude  materials  for  thinking.  These,  in  a  moment  of 
excitement,  would  be,  as  it  were,  melted  down  and 
poured  forth  in  the  lava  of  a  heated  imagination.  At 
such  moments,  the  change  in  the  whole  man  was 
wonderful.  His  meagre  form  would  acquire  a  dignity 
and  grace;  his  long,  pale  visage  would  flash  with  a 
hectic  glow ;  his  eyes  would  beam  with  intense  specula 
tion  ;  and  there  would  be  pathetic  tones  and  deep  modu 
lations  in  his  voice,  that  delighted  the  ear,  and  spoke 
movingly  to  the  heart. 

But  what  most  endeared  him  to  us,  was  the  kindness 
and  sympathy  with  which  he  entered  into  all  our 
interests  and  wishes.  Instead  of  curbing  and  checking 
our  young  imaginations  with  the  reins  of  sober  reason, 


42  MOUNTJOY 

he  was  a  little  too  apt  to  catch  the  impulse,  and  be 
hurried  away  with  us.  He  could  not  withstand  the 
excitement  of  any  sally  of  feeling  or  fancy,  and  was 
prone  to  lend  heightening  tints  to  the  illusive  coloring 
of  youthful  anticipation. 

Under  his  guidance  my  sisters  and  myself  soon 
entered  upon  a  more  extended  range  of  studies;  but 
while  they  wandered,  with  delighted  minds,  through 
the  wide  field  of  history  and  belles-lettres,  a  nobler 
walk  was  opened  to  my  superior  intellect. 

The  mind  of  Glencoe  presented  a  singular  mixture 
of  philosophy  and  poetry.  He-  was  fond  of  meta 
physics,  and  prone  to  indulge  in  abstract  speculations, 
though  his  metaphysics  were  somewhat  fine  spun  and 
fanciful,  and  his  speculations  were  apt  to  partake  of 
what  my  father  most  irreverently  termed  "  humbug." 
For  my  part,  I  delighted  in  them,  and  the  more  es 
pecially  because  they  set  my  father  to  sleep,  and  com 
pletely  confounded  my  sisters.  I  entered,  with  my 
accustomed  eagerness,  into  this  new  branch  of  study. 
Metaphysics  were  now  my  passion.  My  sisters  at 
tempted  to  accompany  me,  but  they  soon  faltered,  and 
gave  out  before  they  had  got  half-way  through 
"  Smith's  Theory  of  Moral  Sentiments."  I,  however, 
went  on,  exulting  in  my  strength.  Glencoe  supplied  me 
with  books,  and  I  devoured  them  with  appetite,  if  not 
digestion.  We  walked  and  talked  together  under  the 
trees  before  the  house,  or  sat  apart,  like  Milton's  angels, 
and  held  high  converse  upon  themes  beyond  the  grasp 
of  ordinary  intellects.  Glencoe  possessed  a  kind  of 
philosophic  chivalry,  in  imitation  of  the  old  peripatetic 
sages,  and  was  continually  dreaming  of  romantic  enter 
prises  in  morals,  and  splendid  systems  for  the  improve 
ment  of  society.  He  had  a  fanciful  mode  of  illus 
trating  abstract  subjects,  peculiarly  to  my  taste ;  cloth 
ing  them  with  the  language  of  poetry,  and  throwing 
round  them  almost  the  magic  hues  of  fiction.  "  How 


MOUNTJOY  43 

charming,"  thought  I,   "  is  divine  philosophy " ;    not 
harsh  and  crabbed,  as  dull   fools  suppose, 

But  a  perpetual  feast  of  nectar'd  sweets. 
Where  no  crude  surfeit  reigns. 

I  felt  a  wonderful  self-complacency  at  being  on  such 
excellent  terms  with  a  man  whom  I  considered  on  a 
parallel  with  the  sages  of  antiquity,  and  looked  down 
with  a  sentiment  of  pity  on  the  feebler  intellects  of  my 
sisters,  who  could  comprehend  nothing  of  metaphysics. 
It  is  true,  when  I  attempted  to  study  them  by  myself 
I  was  apt  to  get  in  a  fog;  but  when  Glencoe  came  to 
my  aid,  everything  was  soon  as  clear  to  me  as  day. 
My  ear  drank  in  the  beauty  of  his  words ;  my  imagi 
nation  was  dazzled  with  the  splendor  of  his  illustra 
tions.  It  caught  up  the  sparkling  sands  of  poetry  that 
glittered  through  his  speculations,  and  mistook  them 
for  the  golden  ore  of  wisdom.  Struck  with  the  facility 
with  which  I  seemed  to  imbibe  and  relish  the  most 
abstract  doctrines,  I  conceived  a  still  higher  opinion 
of  my  mental  powers,  and  was  convinced  that  I  also 
was  a  philosopher. 

I  was  now  verging  toward  man's  estate,  and  though 
my  education  had  been  extremely  irregular,  —  follow 
ing  the  caprices  of  my  humor,  which  I  mistook  for 
the  impulses  of  my  genius,  —  yet  I  was  regarded  with 
wonder  and  delight  by  my  mother  and  sisters,  who 
considered  me  almost  as  wise  and  infallible  as  I  con 
sidered  myself.  This  high  opinion  of  me  was  strength 
ened  by  a  declamatory  habit,  which  made  me  an  oracle 
and  orator  at  the  domestic  board.  The  time  was  now 
at  hand,  however,  that  was  to  put  my  philosophy  to 
the  test. 

We  had  passed  through  a  long  winter,  and  the 
spring  at  length  opened  upon  us,  with  unusual  sweet 
ness.  The  soft  serenity  of  the  weather,  the  beauty  of 


44  MOUNTJOY 

the  surrounding  country,  the  joyous  notes  of  the 
birds,  the  balmy  breath  of  flower  and  blossom,  all 
combined  to  fill  my  bosom  with  indistinct  sensations 
and  nameless  wishes.  Amid  the  soft  seductions  of 
the  season  I  lapsed  into  a  state  of  utter  indolence,  both 
of  body  and  mind. 

Philosophy  had  lost  its  charms  for  me.  Meta 
physics  —  faugh !  I  tried  to  study ;  took  down 
volume  after  volume,  ran  my  eye  vacantly  over  a 
few  pages,  and  threw  them  by  with  distaste.  I 
loitered  about  the  house,  with  my  hands  in  my  pockets, 
and  an  air  of  complete  vacancy.  Something  was  neces 
sary  to  make  me  happy ;  but  what  was  that  something  ? 
I  sauntered  to  the  apartments  of  my  sisters,  hoping 
their  conversation  might  amuse  me.  They  had  walked 
out,  and  the  room  was  vacant.  On  the  table  lay  a 
volume  which  they  had  been  -reading.  It  was  a  novel. 
I  had  never  read  a  novel,  having  conceived  a  contempt 
for  works  of  the  kind,  from  hearing  them  universally 
condemned.  It  is  true,  I  had  remarked  they  were  uni 
versally  read ;  but  I  considered  them  beneath  the  at 
tention  of  a  philosopher,  and  never  would  venture  to 
read  them,  lest  I  should  lessen  my  mental  superiority 
in  the  eyes  of  my  sisters.  Nay,  I  had  taken  up  a  work 
of  the  kind,  now  and  then,  when  I  knew  my  sisters 
were  observing  me,  looked  into  it  for  a  moment,  and 
then  laid  it  down,  with  a  slight  supercilious  smile.  On 
the  present  occasion,  out  of  mere  listlessness,  I  took 
up  the  volume,  and  turned  over  a  few  of  the  first  pages. 
I  thought  I  heard  some  one  coming,  and  laid  it  down. 
I  was  mistaken ;  no  one  was  near,  and  what  I  had 
read,  tempted  my  curiosity  to  read  a  little  farther.  I 
leaned  against  a  window-frame,  and  in  a  few  minutes 
was  completely  lost  in  the  story.  How  long  I  stood 
there  reading  I  know  not,  but  I  believe  for  nearly  two 
hours.  Suddenly  I  heard  my  sisters  on  the  stairs, 
when  I  thrust  the  book  into  my  bosom,  and  the  two 


MOUNTJOY  45 

other  volumes,  which  lay  near,  into  my  pockets,  and 
hurried  out  of  the  house  to  my  beloved  woods.  Here 
I  remained  all  day  beneath  the  trees,  bewildered,  be 
witched  ;  devouring  the  contents  of  these  delicious 
volumes;  and  only  returned  to  the  house  when  it  was 
too  dark  to  peruse  their  pages. 

This  novel  finished,  I  replaced  it  in  my  sister's  apart 
ment,  and  looked  for  others.  Their  stock  was  ample, 
for  they  had  brought  home  all  that  were  current  in  the 
city;  but  my  appetite  demanded  an  immense  supply. 
All  this  course  of  reading  was  carried  on  clandestinely, 
for  I  was  a  little  ashamed  of  it,  and  fearful  that  my 
wisdom  might  be  called  in  question;  but  this  very 
privacy  gave  it  additional  zest.  It  was  "  bread  eaten 
in  secret " ;  it  had  the  charm  of  a  private  amour. 

But  think  what  must  have  been  the  effect  of  such  a 
course  of  reading  on  a  youth  of  my  temperament  and 
turn  of  mind;  indulged,  too,  amidst  romantic  scenery, 
and  in  the  romantic  season  of  the  year.  It  seemed  as 
if  I  had  entered  upon  a  new  scene  of  existence.  A 
train  of  combustible  feelings  were  lighted  up  in  me, 
and  my  soul  was  all  tenderness  and  passion.  Never 
was  youth  more  completely  love-sick,  though  as  yet  it 
was  a  mere  general  sentiment,  and  wanted  a  definite 
object.  Unfortunately,  our  neighborhood  was  particu 
larly  deficient  in  female  society,  and  I  languished  in 
vain  for  some  divinity,  to  whom  I  might  offer  up  this 
most  uneasy  burden  of  affections.  I  was  at  one  time 
seriously  enamored  of  a  lady  whom  I  saw  occasionally 
in  my  rides,  reading  at  the  window  of  a  country-seat, 
and  actually  serenaded  her  with  my  flute ;  when,  to  my 
confusion,  I  discovered  that  she  was  old  enough  to  be 
my  mother.  It  was  a  sad  damper  to  my  romance ;  es 
pecially  as  my  father  heard  of  it,  and  made  it  the 
subject  of  one  of  those  household  jokes,  which  he  was 
apt  to  serve  up  at  every  meal-time. 

I  soon  recovered  from  this  check,  however,  but  it 


46  MOUNTJOY 

was  only  to  relapse  into  a  state  of  amorous  excitement. 
I  passed  whole  days  in  the  fields,  and  along  the  brooks ; 
for  there  is  something  in  the  tender  passion  that  makes 
us  alive  to  the  beauties  of  Nature.  A  soft  sunshine 
morning  infused  a  sort  of  rapture  into  my  breast;  I 
flung  open  my  arms,  like  the  Grecian  youth  in  Ovid, 
as  if  I  would  take  in  and  embrace  the  balmy  atmos 
phere.1  The  song  of  the  birds  melted  me  to  tenderness. 
I  would  lie  by  the  side  of  some  rivulet  for  hours,  and 
form  garlands  of  the  flowers  on  its  banks,  and  muse 
on  ideal  beauties,  and  sigh  from  the  crowd  of  un 
defined  emotions  that  swelled  my  bosom. 

In  this  state  of  amorous  delirium,  I  was  strolling 
one  morning  along  a  beautiful  wild  brook  which  I 
had  discovered  in  a  glen.  There  was  one  place  where 
a  small  waterfall,  leaping  from  among  rocks  into  a 
natural  basin,  made  a  scene  such  as  a  poet  might  have 
chosen  as  the  haunt  of  some  shy  Naiad.  It  was  here 
I  usually  retired  to  banquet  on  my  novels.  In  visiting 
the  place  this  morning,  I  traced  distinctly,  on  the 
margin  of  the  basin,  which  was  of  fine  clear  sand, 
the  prints  of  a  female  foot,  of  the  most  slender  and 
delicate  proportions.  This  was  sufficient  for  an  imagi 
nation  like  mine.  Robinson  Crusoe  himself,  when  he 
discovered  the  print  of  a  savage  foot  on  the  beach  of 
his  lonely  island,  could  not  have  been  more  suddenly 
assailed  with  thickcoming  fancies. 

I  endeavored  to  track  the  steps,  but  they  only  passed 
for  a  few  paces  along  the  fine  sand,  and  then  were  lost 
among  the  herbage.  I  remained  gazing  in  reverie 
upon  this  passing  trace  of  loveliness.  It  evidently  was 
not  made  by  any  of  my  sisters,  for  they  knew  nothing 
of  this  haunt;  besides,  the  foot  was  smaller  than 
theirs;  it  was  remarkable  for  its  beautiful  delicacy. 

My  eye  accidentally  caught  two  or  three  half-with 
ered  wild  flowers,  lying  on  the  ground.  The  unknown 

3  Ovid's  Metamorphoses,  Books  vii. 


MOUNTJOY  47 

nymph  had  doubtless  dropped  them  from  her  bosom! 
Here  was  a  new  document  of  taste  and  sentiment.  I 
treasured  them  up  as  invaluable  relics.  The  place,  too, 
where  I  found  them,  was  remarkably  picturesque,  and 
the  most  beautiful  part  of  the  brook.  It  was  over 
hung  with  a  fine  elm,  entwined  with  grape-vines.  She 
who  could  select  such  a  spot,  who  could  delight  in  wild 
brooks,  and  wild  flowers,  and  silent  solitudes,  must 
have  fancy,  and  feeling,  and  tenderness;  and,  with  all 
these  qualities,  she  must  be  beautiful ! 

But  who  could  be  this  Unknown,  that  had  thus 
passed  by,  as  in  a  morning  dream,  leaving  merely 
flowers  and  fairy  footsteps  to  tell  of  her  loveliness! 
There  was  a  mystery  in  it  that  bewildered  me.  It  was 
so  vague  and  disembodied,  like  those  "  airy  tongues 
that  syllable  men's  names  "  in  solitude.  Every  attempt 
to  solve  the  mystery  was  vain.  I  could  hear  of  no 
being  in  the  neighborhood  to  whom  this  trace  could  be 
ascribed.  I  haunted  the  spot,  and  became  more  and 
more  enamored.  Never,  surely,  was  passion  more 
pure  and  spiritual,  and  never  lover  in  more  dubious 
situation.  My  case  could  only  be  compared  with  that 
of  the  amorous  prince,  in  the  fairy  tale  of  "  Cinder 
ella  "  ;  but  he  had  a  glass  slipper  on  which  to  lavish  his 
tenderness.  I,  alas!  was  in  love  with  a  footstep! 

The  imagination  is  alternately  a  cheat  and  a  dupe; 
nay,  more,  it  is  the  most  subtle  of  cheats,  for  it  cheats 
itself,  and  becomes  the  dupe  of  its  own  delusions.  It 
conjures  up  "  airy  nothings,"  gives  to  them  a  "  local 
habitation  and  a  name,"  and  then  bows  to  their  control 
as  implicitly  as  if  they  were  realities.  Such  was  now 
my  case.  The  good  Numa  could  not  more  thoroughly 
have  persuaded  himself  that  the  nymph  Egeria  hov 
ered  about  her  sacred  fountain,  and  communed  with 
him  in  spirit,  than  I  had  deceived  myself  into  a  kind 
of  visionary  intercourse  with  the  airy  phantom  fabri- 


48  MOUNTJOY 

cated  in  my  brain.  I  constructed  a  rustic  seat  at  the 
foot  of  the  tree  where  I  had  discovered  the  footsteps. 
I  made  a  kind  of  bower  there,  where  I  used  to  pass  my 
mornings,  reading  poetry  and  romances.  I  carved 
hearts  and  darts  on  the  tree,  and  hung  it  with  gar 
lands.  My  heart  was  full  to  overflowing,  and  wanted 
some  faithful  bosom  into  which  it  might  relieve  itself. 
What  is  a  lover  without  a  confidante?  I  thought  at 
once  of  my  sister  Sophy,  my  early  playmate,  the  sister  of 
my  affections.  She  was  so  reasonable,  too,  and  of  such 
correct  feelings,  always  listening  to  my  words  as  orac 
ular  sayings,  and  admiring  my  scraps  of  poetry,  as  the 
very  inspirations  of  the  Muse.  From  such  a  devoted, 
such  a  rational  being,  what  secrets  could  I  have? 

I  accordingly  took  her,  one  morning,  to  my  favorite 
retreat.  She  looked  around,  with  delighted  surprise, 
upon  the  rustic  seat,  the  bower,  the  tree  carved  with 
emblems  of  the  tender  passion.  She  turned  her  eyes 
upon  me  to  inquire  the  meaning. 

"  Oh,  Sophy,"  exclaimed  I,  clasping  both  her  hands 
in  mine,  and  looking  earnestly  in  her  face,  "  I  am  in 
love!" 

She  started  with  surprise. 

"  Sit  down,"  said  I,  "  and  I  will  tell  you  all." 

She  seated  herself  upon  the  rustic  bench,  and  I  went 
into  a  full  history  of  the  footstep,  with  all  the  asso 
ciations  of  idea  that  had  been  conjured  up  by  my 
imagination. 

Sophy  was  enchanted;  it  was  like  a  fairy  tale:  she 
had  read  of  such  mysterious  visitations  in  books,  and 
the  loves  thus  conceived  were  always  for  beings  of 
superior  order,  and  were  always  happy.  She  caught 
the  illusion,  in  all  its  force ;  her  cheek  glowed ;  her  eye 
brightened. 

"  I  dare  say  she  's  pretty,"  said  Sophy. 

"Pretty!"  echoed  I,  "she  is  beautiful!"  I  went 
through  all  the  reasoning  by  which  I  had  logically 


MOUNTJOY  49 

proved  the  fact  to  my  own  satisfaction.  I  dwelt  upon 
the  evidences  of  her  taste,  her  sensibility  to  the  beauties 
of  Nature;  her  soft  meditative  habit,  that  delighted 
in  solitude;  "oh,"  said  I,  clasping  my  hands,  "to 
have  such  a  companion  to  wander  through  these 
scenes ;  to  sit  with  her  by  this  murmuring  stream ;  to 
wreathe  garlands  round  her  brows ;  to  hear  the  music 
of  her  voice  mingling  with  the  whisperings  of  these 
groves  " ; 

"  Delightful !  delightful !  "  cried  Sophy ;  "  what  a 
sweet  creature  she  must  be!  She  is  just  the  friend  I 
want.  How  I  shall  dote  upon  her!  Oh,  my  dear 
brother!  you  must  not  keep  her  all  to  yourself.  You 
must  let  me  have  some  share  of  her !  " 

I  caught  her  to  my  bosom :  "  You  shall  —  you 
shall!  "  cried  I,  "my  dear  Sophy;  we  will  all  live  for 
each  other ! " 

The  conversation  with  Sophy  heightened  the  illu 
sions  of  my  mind;  and  the  manner  in  which  she  had 
treated  my  day-dream,  identified  it  with  facts  and  per 
sons,  and  gave  it  still  more  the  stamp  of  reality.  I 
walked  about  as  one  in  a  trance,  heedless  of  the  world 
around,  and  lapped  in  an  elysium  of  the  fancy. 

In  this  mood  I  met,  one  morning,  with  Glencoe.  He 
accosted  me  with  his  usual  smile,  and  was  proceeding 
with  some  general  observations,  but  paused  and  fixed 
on  me  an  inquiring  eye. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  you?"  said  he;  "you 
seem  agitated;  has  anything  in  particular  happened?" 

"Nothing,"  said  I,  hesitating;  "at  least  nothing 
worth  communicating  to  you." 

"  Nay,  my  dear  young  friend,"  said  he,  "  whatever 
is  of  sufficient  importance  to  agitate  you,  is  worthy  of 
being  communicated  to  me." 

"  Well ;  but  my  thoughts  are  running  on  what  you 
would  think  a  frivolous  subject." 

4 


50  MOUNTJOY 

"  No  subject  is  frivolous  that  has  the  power  to 
awaken  strong  feelings." 

"  What  think  you,"  said  I,  hesitating,  "  what  think 
you  of  love?  " 

Glencoe  almost  started  at  the  question.  "  Do  you 
call  that  a  frivolous  subject?"  replied  he.  "Believe 
me,  there  is  none  fraught  with  such  deep,  such  vital 
interest.  If  you  talk,  indeed,  of  the  capricious  incli 
nation  awakened  by  the  mere  charm  of  perishable 
beauty,  I  grant  it  to  be  idle  in  the  extreme;  but  that 
love  which  springs  from  the  concordant  sympathies  of 
virtuous  hearts;  that  love  which  is  awakened  by  the 
perception  of  moral  excellence,  and  fed  by  meditation 
on  intellectual  as  well  as  personal  beauty ;  that  is  a 
passion  which  refines  and  ennobles  the  human  heart. 
Oh,  where  is  there  a  sight  more  nearly  approaching  to 
the  intercourse  of  angels,  than  that  of  two  young 
beings,  free  from  the  sins  and  follies  of  the  world, 
mingling  pure  thoughts,  and  looks,  and  feelings,  and 
becoming  as  it  were  soul  of  one  soul,  and  heart  of  one 
heart !  How  exquisite  the  silent  converse  that  they 
hold ;  the  soft  devotion  of  the  eye,  that  needs  no  words 
to  make  it  eloquent!  Yes,  my  friend,  if  there  be  any 
thing  in  this  weary  world  worthy  of  heaven,  it  is  the 
pure  bliss  of  such  a  mutual  affection !  " 

The  words  of  my  worthy  tutor  overcame  all  farther 
reserve.  "  Mr.  Glencoe,"  cried  I,  blushing  still  deeper, 
"I  am  in  love!" 

"  And  is  that  what  you  were  ashamed  to  tell  me  ? 
Oh,  never  seek  to  conceal  from  your  friend  so  impor 
tant  a  secret.  If  your  passion  be  unworthy,  it  is  for 
the  steady  hand  of  friendship  to  pluck  it  forth ;  if 
honorable,  none  but  an  enemy  would  seek  to  stifle  it. 
On  nothing  does  the  character  and  happiness  so  much 
depend,  as  on  the  first  affection  of  the  heart.  Were 
you  caught  by  some  fleeting  or  superficial  charm  —  a 
bright  eye,  a  blooming  cheek,  a  soft  voice,  or  a  volup- 


MOUNT  JOY  51 

tuous  form  —  I  would  warn  you  to  beware ;  I  would 
tell  you  that  beauty  is  but  a  passing  gleam  of  the 
morning,  a  perishable  flower;  that  accident  may  be 
cloud  and  blight  it,  and  that  at  best  it  must  soon  pass 
away.  But  were  you  in  love  with  such  a  one  as  I 
could  describe;  young  in  years,  but  still  younger  in 
feelings ;  lovely  in  person,  but  as  a  type  of  the  mind's 
beauty ;  soft  in  voice,  in  token  of  gentleness  of  spirit ; 
blooming  in  countenance,  like  the  rosy  tints  of  morn 
ing  kindling  with  the  promise  of  a  genial  day;  an  eye 
beaming  with  the  benignity  of  a  happy  heart ;  a  cheer 
ful  temper,  alive  to  all  kind  impulses,  and  frankly 
diffusing  its  own  felicity;  a  self-poised  mind,  that 
needs  not  lean  on  others  for  support ;  an  elegant  taste, 
that  can  embellish  solitude,  and  furnish  out  its  own 
enjoyments  " 

"  My  dear  sir,"  cried  I,  for  I  could  contain  myself 
no  longer,  "  you  have  described  the  very  person !  " 

"  Why,  then,  my  dear  young  friend,"  said  he,  affec 
tionately  pressing  my  hand,  "  in  God's  name,  love  on !  " 

For  the  remainder  of  the  day  I  was  in  some  such 
state  of  dreamy  beatitude  as  a  Turk  is  said  to  enjoy, 
when  under  the  influence  of  opium.  It  must  be  already 
manifest,  how  prone  I  was  to  bewilder  myself  with 
picturings  of  the  fancy,  so  as  to  confound  them  with 
existing  realities.  In  the  present  instance  Sophy  and 
Glencoe  had  contributed  to  promote  the  transient 
delusion.  Sophy,  dear  girl,  had  as  usual  joined  with 
me  in  my  castle-building,  and  indulged  in  the  same 
train  of  imaginings,  while  Glencoe,  duped  by  my  en 
thusiasm,  firmly  believed  that  I  spoke  of  a  being  I  had 
seen  and  known.  By  their  sympathy  with  my  feelings, 
they  in  a  manner  became  associated  with  the  Unknown 
in  my  mind,  and  thus  linked  her  with  the  circle  of  my 
intimacy. 

In  the  evening  our  family  party  was  assembled  in 


52  MOUNTJOY 

the  hall,  to  enjoy  the  refreshing  breeze.  Sophy  was 
playing  some  favorite  Scotch  airs  on  the  piano,  while 
Glencoe,  seated  apart,  with  his  forehead  resting  on  his 
hand,  was  buried  in  one  of  those  pensive  reveries,  that 
made  him  so  interesting  to  me. 

"  What  a  fortunate  being  I  am !  "  thought  I,  "  blessed 
with  such  a  sister  and  such  a  friend!  I  have  only  to 
find  out  this  amiable  Unknown,  to  wed  her,  and  be 
happy !  What  a  paradise  will  be  my  home,  graced  with 
a  partner  of  such  exquisite  refinement !  It  will  be  a 
perfect  fairy  bower,  buried  among  sweets  and  roses. 
Sophy  shall  live  with  us,  and  be  the  companion  of  all 
our  enjoyments.  Glencoe,  too,  shall  no  more  be  the 
solitary  being  that  he  now  appears.  He  shall  have  a 
home  with  us.  He  shall  have  his  study,  where,  when 
he  pleases,  he  may  shut  himself  up  from  the  world, 
and  bury  himself  in  his  own  reflections.  His  retreat 
shall  be  held  sacred ;  no  one  shall  intrude  there ;  no 
one  but  myself,  who  will  visit  him  now  and  then,  in 
his  seclusion,  where  we  will  devise  grand  schemes  to 
gether  for  the  improvement  of  mankind.  How  de 
lightfully  our  days  will  pass,  in  a  round  of  rational 
pleasures  and  elegant  employments!  Sometimes  we 
will  have  music ;  sometimes  we  will  read ;  sometimes 
We  will  wander  through  the  flower-garden,  when  I 
will  smile  with  complacency  on  every  flower  my  wife 
has  planted ;  while  in  the  long  winter  evenings,  the 
ladies  will  sit  at  their  work  and  listen,  with  hushed 
attention,  to  Glencoe  and  myself,  as  we  discuss  the 
abstruse  doctrines  of  metaphysics." 

From  this  delectable  reverie  I  was  startled  by  my 
father's  slapping  me  on  the  shoulder :  "  What  pos 
sesses  the  lad  ?  "  cried  he ;  "  here  have  I  been  speaking 
to  you  half  a  dozen  times,  without  receiving  an 
answer." 

"  Pardon  me,  sir,"  replied  I ;  "I  was  so  completely 
lost  in  thought,  that  I  did  not  hear  you." 


MOUNTJOY  53 

"  Lost  in  thought !  And  pray  what  were  you  think 
ing  of  ?  Some  of  your  philosophy,  I  suppose." 

"  Upon  my  word,"  said  my  sister  Charlotte,  with 
an  arch  laugh,  "  I  suspect  Harry  's  in  love  again." 

"  And  if  I  were  in  love,  Charlotte,"  said  I,  somewhat 
nettled,  and  recollecting  Glencoe's  enthusiastic  eulogy 
of  the  passion,  "  if  I  were  in  love,  is  that  a  matter  of 
jest  and  laughter?  Is  the  tenderest  and  most  fervid 
affection  that  can  animate  the  human  breast  to  be  made 
a  matter  of  cold-hearted  ridicule?  " 

My  sister  colored.  "  Certainly  not,  brother !  nor 
did  I  mean  to  make  it  so,  nor  to  say  anything  that 
should  wound  your  feelings.  Had  I  really  suspected 
that  you  had  formed  some  genuine  attachment,  it 
would  have  been  sacred  in  my  eyes ;  but  —  but,"  said 
she,  smiling,  as  if  at  some  whimsical  recollection,  "  I 
thought  that  you  —  you  might  be  indulging  in  another 
little  freak  of  the  imagination." 

"  I  '11  wager  any  money,"  cried  my  father,  "  he  has 
fallen  in  love  again  with  some  old  lady  at  a  window !  " 

"  Oh  no !  "  cried  my  dear  sister  Sophy,  with  the 
most  gracious  warmth;  "  she  is  young  and  beautiful." 

"  From  what  I  understand,"  said  Glencoe,  rousing 
himself,  "  she  must  be  lovely  in  mind  as  in  person." 

I  found  my  friends  were  getting  me  into  a  fine 
scrape.  I  began  to  perspire  at  every  pore,  and  felt  my 
ears  tingle. 

"  Well,  but,"  cried  my  father,  "  who  is  she?  —  what 
is  she?  Let  us  hear  something  about  her." 

This  was  no  time  to  explain  so  delicate  a  matter. 
I  caught  up  my  hat,  and  vanished  out  of  the  house. 

The  moment  I  was  in  the  open  air,  and  alone,  my 
heart  upbraided  me.  Was  this  respectful  treatment  to 
my  father  —  to  such  a  father  too  —  who  had  always 
regarded  me  as  the  pride  of  his  age  —  the  staff  of  his 
hopes?  It  is  true,  he  was  apt,  sometimes,  to  laugh  at 
my  enthusiastic  flights,  and  did  not  treat  my  philosophy 


54  MOUNTJOY 

with  due  respect ;  but  when  had  he  -ever  thwarted  a 
wish  of  my  heart?  Was  I  then  to  act  with  reserve 
toward  him,  in  a  matter  which  might  affect  the  whole 
current  of  my  future  life?  "I  have  done  wrong," 
thought  I ;  "  but  it  is  not  too  late  to  remedy  it.  I  will 
hasten  back,  and  open  my  whole  heart  to  my  father !  " 

I  returned  accordingly,  and  was  just  on  the  point 
of  entering  the  house,  with  my  heart  full  of  filial  piety, 
and  a  contrite  speech  upon  my  lips,  when  I  heard  a 
burst  of  obstreperous  laughter  from  my  father,  and 
a  loud  titter  from  my  two  elder  sisters. 

"  A  footstep !  "  shouted  he,  as  soon  as  he  could  re 
cover  himself ;  "  in  love  with  a  footstep !  why,  this 
beats  the  old  lady  at  the  window !  "  And  then  there 
was  another  appalling  burst  of  laughter.  Had  it  been 
a  clap  of  thunder,  it  could  hardly  have  astounded  me 
more  completely.  •  Sophy,  in  the  simplicity  of  her 
heart,  had  told  all,  and  had  set  my  father's  risible  pro 
pensities  in  full  action. 

Never  was  poor  mortal  so  thoroughly  crestfallen  as 
myself.  The  whole  delusion  was  at  an  end.  I  drew 
off  silently  from  the  house,  shrinking  smaller  and 
smaller  at  every  fresh  peal  of  laughter;  and,  wander 
ing  about  until  the  family  had  retired,  stole  quietly 
to  my  bed.  Scarce  any  sleep,  however,  visited  my 
eyes  that  night.  I  lay  overwhelmed  with  mortification, 
and  meditating  how  I  might  meet  the  family  in  the 
morning.  The  idea  of  ridicule  was  always  intolerable 
to  me ;  but  to  endure  it  on  a  subject  by  which  my  feel 
ings  had  been  so  much  excited,  seemed  worse  than 
death.  I  almost  determined,  at  one  time,  to  get  up, 
saddle  my  horse,  and  ride  off,  I  knew  not  whither. 

At  length  I  came  to  a  resolution.  Before  going 
down  to  breakfast  I  sent  for  Sophy,  and  employed  her 
as  an  ambassador  to  treat  formally  in  the  matter.  I 
insisted  that  the  subject  should  be  buried  in  oblivion: 
otherwise  I  would  not  show  my  face  at  table.  It  was 


MOUNTJOY  55 

readily  agreed  to;  for  not  one  of  the  family  would 
have  given  me  pain  for  the  world.  They  faithfully 
kept  their  promise.  Not  a  word  was  said  of  the  mat 
ter;  but  there  were  wry  faces,  and  suppressed  titters, 
that  went  to  my  soul ;  and  whenever  my  father  looked 
me  in  the  face,  it  was  with  such  a  tragic-comical  leer 
—  such  an  attempt  to  pull  down  a  serious  brow  upon 
a  whimsical  mouth  —  that  I  had  a  thousand  times 
rather  he  had  laughed  outright. 

For  a  day  or  two  after  the  mortifying  occurrence 
mentioned,  I  kept  as  much  as  possible  out  of  the  way 
of  the  family,  and  wandered  about  the  fields  and  woods 
by  myself.  I  was  sadly  out  of  tune :  my  feelings  were 
all  jarred  and  unstrung.  The  birds  sang  from  every 
grove,  but  I  took  no  pleasure  in  their  melody ;  and  the 
flowers  of  the  field  bloomed  unheeded  around  me.  To 
be  crossed  in  love  is  bad  enough;  but  then  one  can 
fly  to  poetry  for  relief,  and  turn  one's  woes  to  account 
in  soul-subduing  stanzas.  But  to  have  one's  whole 
passion,  object  and  all,  annihilated,  dispelled,  proved 
to  be  such  stuff  as  dreams  are  made  of,  or,  worse  than 
all,  to  be  turned  into  a  proverb  and  a  jest  —  what 
consolation  is  there  in  such  a  case? 

I  avoided  the  fatal  brook  where  I  had  seen  the  foot 
step.  My  favorite  resort  was  now  the  banks  of  the 
Hudson,  where  I  sat  upon  the  rocks  and  mused  upon 
the  current  that  dimpled  by,  or  the  waves  that  laved 
the  shore;  or  watched  the  bright  mutations  of  the 
clouds,  and  the  shifting  lights  and  shadows  of  the  dis 
tant  mountain.  By  degrees  a  returning  serenity  stole 
over  my  feelings ;  and  a  sigh  now  and  then,  gentle  and 
easy,  and  unattended  by  pain,  showed  that  my  heart 
was  recovering  its  susceptibility. 

As  I  was  sitting  in  this  musing  mood,  my  eye  be 
came  gradually  fixed  upon  an  object  that  was  borne 
along  by  the  tide.  It  proved  to  be  a  little  pinnace, 


56  MOUNTJOY 

beautifully  modelled,  and  gayly  painted  and  decorated. 
It  was  an  unusual  sight  in  this  neighborhood,  which 
was  rather  lonely:  indeed  it  was  rare  to  see  any 
pleasure-barks  in  this  part  of  the  river.  As  it  drew 
nearer,  I  perceived  that  there  was  no  one  on  board;  it 
had  apparently  drifted  from  its  anchorage.  There  was 
not  a  breath  of  air :  the  little  bark  came  floating  along 
on  the  glassy  stream,  wheeling  about  with  the  eddies. 
At  length  it  ran  aground,  almost  at  the  foot  of  the 
rock  on  which  I  was  seated.  I  descended  to  the  margin 
of  the  river,  and  drawing  the  bark  to  shore,  admired 
its  light  and  elegant  proportions,  and  the  taste  with 
which  it  was  fitted  up.  The  benches,  were  covered  with 
cushions,  and  its  long  streamer  was  of  silk.  On  one 
of  the  cushions  lay  a  lady's  glove,  of  delicate  size  and 
shape,  with  beautifully  tapered  fingers.  I  instantly 
seized  it  and  thrust  it  in  my  bosom :  it  seemed  a  match 
for  the  fairy  footstep  that  had  so  fascinated  me. 

In  a  moment  all  the  romance  of  my  bosom  was  again 
in  a  glow.  Here  was  one  of  the  very  incidents  of  fairy 
tale :  a  bark  sent  by  some  invisible  power,  some  good 
genius,  or  benevolent  fairy,  to  waft  me  to  some  delect 
able  adventure.  I  recollected  something  of  an  en 
chanted  bark,  drawn  by  white  swans,  that  conveyed  a 
knight  down  the  current  of  the  Rhine,  on  some  enter 
prise  connected  with  love  and  beauty.  The  glove,  too, 
showed  that  there  was  a  lady  fair  concerned  in  the 
present  adventure.  It  might  be  a  gauntlet  of  defiance, 
to  dare  me  to  the  enterprise. 

In  the  spirit  of  romance,  and  the  whim  of  the  mo 
ment,  I  sprang  on  board,  hoisted  the  light  sail,  and 
pushed  from  shore.  As  if  breathed  by  some  presiding 
power,  a  light  breeze  at  that  moment  sprang  up,  swelled 
out  the  sail,  and  dallied  with  the  silken  streamer.  For 
a  time  I  glided  along  under  steep  umbrageous  banks, 
or  across  deep  sequestered  bays;  and  then  stood  out 
over  a  wide  expansion  of  the  river,  toward  a  high 


MOUNTJOY  57 

rocky  promontory.  It  was  a  lovely  evening:  the  sun 
was  setting  in  a  congregation  of  clouds  that  threw  the 
whole  heavens  in  a  glow,  and  were  reflected  in  the 
river.  I  delighted  myself  with  all  kinds  of  fantastic 
fancies,  as  to  what  enchanted  island,  or  mystic  bower, 
or  necromantic  palace,  I  was  to  be  conveyed  by  the 
fairy  bark. 

In  the  revel  of  my  fancy,  I  had  not  noticed  that  the 
gorgeous  congregation  of  clouds  which  had  so  much 
delighted  me,  was,  in  fact,  a  gathering  thunder-gust. 
I  perceived  the  truth  too  late.  The  clouds  came  hurry 
ing  on,  darkening  as  they  advanced.  The  whole  face 
of  Nature  was  suddenly  changed,  and  assumed  that 
baleful  and  livid  tint  predictive  of  a  storm.  I  tried  to 
gain  the  shore;  but,  before  I  could  reach  it,  a  blast  of 
wind  struck  the  water,  and  lashed  it  at  once  into  foam. 
The  next  moment  it  overtook  the  boat.  Alas!  I  was 
nothing  of  a  sailor;  and  my  protecting  fairy  forsook 
me  in  the  moment  of  peril.  I  endeavored  to  lower  the 
sail,  but  in  so  doing  I  had  to  quit  the  helm;  the  bark 
was  overturned  in  an  instant,  and  I  was  thrown  into 
the  water.  I  endeavored  to  cling  to  the  wreck,  but 
missed  my  hold :  being  a  poor  swimmer,  I  soon  found 
myself  sinking,  but  grasped  a  light  oar  that  was  float 
ing  by  me.  It  was  not  sufficient  for  my  support:  I 
again  sank  beneath  the  surface;  there  was  a  rushing 
and  bubbling  sound  in  my  ears,  and  all  sense  for 
sook  me. 

How  long  I  remained  insensible,  I  know  not.  I  had 
a  confused  notion  of  being  moved  and  tossed  about, 
and  of  hearing  strange  beings  and  strange  voices 
around  me;  but  all  was  like  a  hideous  dream.  When 
I  at  length  recovered  full  consciousness  and  percep 
tion,  I  found  myself  in  bed,  in  a  spacious  chamber, 
furnished  with  more  taste  than  I  had  been  accustomed 
to.  The  bright  rays  of  a  morning  sun  were  inter 
cepted  by  curtains  of  a  delicate  rose  color,  that  gave 


58  MOUNTJOY 

a  soft,  voluptuous  tinge  to  every  object.  Not  far  from 
my  bed,  on  a  classic  tripod,  was  a  basket  of  beautiful 
exotic  flowers,  breathing  the  sweetest  fragrance. 

"Where  am  I?     How  came  I  here?" 

I  tasked  my  mind  to  catch  at  some  previous  event, 
from  which  I  might  trace  up  the  thread  of  existence 
to  the  present  moment.  By  degrees  I  called  to  mind 
the  fairy  pinnace,  my  daring  embarkation,  my  adven 
turous  voyage,  and  my  disastrous  shipwreck.  Beyond 
that  all  was  chaos.  How  came  I  here?  What  un 
known  region  had  I  landed  upon?  The  people  that 
inhabited  it  must  be  gentle  and  amiable,  and  of  elegant 
tastes,  for  they  loved  downy  beds,  fragrant  flowers, 
and  rose-colored  curtains. 

While  I  lay  thus  musing,  the  tones  of  a  harp  reached 
my  ear.  Presently  they  were  accompanied  by  a  female 
voice.  It  came  from  the  room  below ;  but  in  the  pro 
found  stillness  of  my  chamber  not  a  modulation  was 
lost.  My  sisters  were  all  considered  good  musicians, 
and  sang  very  tolerably ;  but  I  had  never  heard  a  voice 
like  this.  There  was  no  attempt  at  difficult  execution, 
or  striking  effect;  but  there  were  exquisite  inflexions, 
and  tender  turns,  which  art  could  not  reach.  Nothing 
but  feeling  and  sentiment  could  produce  them.  It  was 
soul  breathed  forth  in  sound.  I  was  always  alive  to 
the  influence  of  music;  indeed  I  was  susceptible  of 
voluptuous  influences  of  every  kind,  —  sounds,  colors, 
shapes,  and  fragrant  odors.  I  was  the  very  slave  of 
sensation. 

I  lay  mute  and  breathless,  and  drank  in  every  note 
of  this  siren  strain.  It  thrilled  through  my  whole 
frame,  and  filled  my  soul  with  melody  and  love.  I 
pictured  to  myself,  with  curious  logic,  the  form  of  the 
unseen  musician.  Such  melodious  sounds  and  exquisite 
inflexions  could  only  be  produced  by  organs  of  the 
most  delicate  flexibility.  Such  organs  do  not  belong 
to  coarse,  vulgar  forms;  they  are  the  harmonious  re- 


MOUNTJOY  59 

stilts  of  fair  proportions  and  admirable  symmetry.  A 
being  so  organized  must  be  lovely. 

Again  my  busy  imagination  was  at  work.  I  called 
to  mind  the  Arabian  story  of  a  prince,  borne  away 
during  sleep  by  a  good  genius,  to  the  distant  abode  of 
a  princess  of  ravishing  beauty.  I  do  not  pretend  to 
say  that  I  believed  in  having  experienced  a  similar 
transportation ;  but  it  was  my  inveterate  habit  to  cheat 
myself  with  fancies  of  the  kind,  and  to  give  the  tinge 
of  illusion  to  surrounding  realities. 

The  witching  sound  had  ceased,  but  its  vibrations 
still  played  round  my  heart,  and  filled  it  with  a  tumult 
of  soft  emotions.  At  this  moment  a  self-upbraiding 
pang  shot  through  my  bosom.  "  Ah,  recreant !  "  a 
voice  seemed  to  exclaim,  "  is  this  the  stability  of  thine 
affections  ?  What !  hast  thou  so  soon  forgotten  the 
nymph  of  the  fountain?  Has  one  song,  idly  piped  in 
thine  ear,  been  sufficient  to  charm  away  the  cherished 
tenderness  of  a  whole  summer?" 

The  wise  may  smile ;  but  I  am  in  a  confiding  mood, 
and  must  confess  my  weakness.  I  felt  a  degree  of 
compunction  at  this  sudden  infidelity,  yet  I  could  not 
resist  the  power  of  present  fascination.  My  peace  of 
mind  was  destroyed  by  conflicting  claims.  The  nymph 
of  the  fountain  came  over  my  memory,  with  all  the 
associations  of  fairy  footsteps,  shady  groves,  soft 
echoes,  and  wild  streamlets;  but  this  new  passion  was 
produced  by  a  strain  of  soul-subduing  melody,  still 
lingering  in  my  ear,  aided  by  a  downy  bed,  fra 
grant  flowers,  and  rose-colored  curtains.  "  Unhappy 
youth!  "  sighed  I  to  myself,  "distracted  by  such  rival 
passions,  and  the  empire  of  thy  heart  thus  violently 
contested  by  the  sound  of  a  voice  and  the  print  of  a 
footstep !  " 

I  had  not  remained  long  in  this  mood,  when  I  heard 
the  door  of  the  room  gently  opened.  I  turned  my 


60  MOUNTJOY 

head  to  see  what  inhabitant  of  this  enchanted  palace 
should  appear;  whether  page  in  green,  hideous  dwarf, 
or  haggard  fairy.  It  was  my  own  man  Scipio.  He 
advanced  with  cautious  step,  and  was  delighted,  as  he 
said,  to  find  me  so  much  myself  again.  My  first  ques 
tions  were  as  to  where  I  was,  and  how  I  came  there? 
Scipio  told  me  a  long  story  of  his  having  been  fishing 
in  a  canoe,  at  the  time  of  my  hare-brained  cruise ;  of 
his  noticing  the  gathering  squall,  and  my  impending 
danger ;  of  his  hastening  to  join  me,  but  arriving  just 
in  time  to  snatch  me  from  a  watery  grave;  of  the 
great  difficulty  in  restoring  me  to  animation;  and  of 
my  being  subsequently  conveyed,  in  a  state  of  insensi 
bility,  to  this  mansion. 

"  But  where  am  I  ?  "  was  the  reiterated  demand. 

"  In  the  house  of  Mr.  Somerville." 

"  Somerville  —  Somerville !  "  I  recollected  to  have 
heard  that  a  gentleman  of  that  name  had  recently  taken 
up  his  residence  at  some  distance  from  my  father's 
abode,  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  Hudson.  He  was 
commonly  known  by  the  name  of  "  French  Somer 
ville,"  from  having  passed  part  of  his  early  life  in 
France,  and  from  his  exhibiting  traces  of  French  taste 
in  his  mode  of  living  and  the  arrangements  of  his 
house.  In  fact,  it  was  in  his  pleasure-boat,  which  had 
got  adrift,  that  I  had  made  my  fanciful  and  disastrous 
cruise.  All  this  was  simple,  straightforward  matter  of 
fact,  and  threatened  to  demolish  all  the  cobweb  ro 
mance  I  had  been  spinning,  when  fortunately  I  again 
heard  the  tinkling  of  a  harp.  I  raised  myself  in  bed, 
and  listened. 

"  Scipio,"  said  I,  with  some  little  hesitation,  "  I 
heard  some  one  singing  just  now.  Who  was  it  ?  " 

"  Oh,  that  was  Miss  Julia." 

"Julia!  Julia!  Delightful!  what  a  name!  And, 
Scipio  —  is  she  —  is  she  pretty  ?  " 

Scipio  grinned   from   ear  to  ear.     "  Except   Miss 


MOUNTJOY  61 

Sophy,  she  was  the  most  beautiful  young  lady  he  had 
ever  seen." 

I  should  observe,  that  my  sister  Sophia  was  consid 
ered  by  all  the  servants  a  paragon  of  perfection. 

Scipio  now  offered  to  remove  the  basket  of  flowers ; 
he  was  afraid  their  odor  might  be  too  powerful;  but 
Miss  Julia  had  given  them  that  morning  to  be  placed  in 
my  room. 

These  flowers,  then,  had  been  gathered  by  the  fairy 
fingers  of  my  unseen  beauty;  that  sweet  breath  which 
had  filled  my  ear  with  melody,  had  passed  over  them. 
I  made  Scipio  hand  them  to  me,  culled  several  of  the 
most  delicate,  and  laid  them  on  my  bosom. 

Mr.  Somerville  paid  me  a  visit  not  long  afterward. 
He  was  an  interesting  study  for  me,  for  he  was  the 
father  of  my  unseen  beauty,  and  probably  resembled 
her.  I  scanned  him  closely.  He  was  a  tall  and  elegant 
man,  with  an  open,  affable  manner,  and  an  erect  and 
graceful  carriage.  His  eyes  were  bluish-gray,  and, 
though  not  dark,  yet  at  times  were  sparkling  and  ex 
pressive.  His  hair  was  dressed  and  powdered,  and 
being  lightly  combed  up  from  his  forehead,  added  to 
the  loftiness  of  his  aspect.  He  was  fluent  in  discourse, 
but  his  conversation  had  the  quiet  tone  of  polished 
society,  without  any  of  those  bold  flights  of  thought, 
and  picturings  of  fancy,  which  I  so  much  admired. 

My  imagination  was  a  little  puzzled,  at  first,  to  make 
out  of  this  assemblage  of  personal  and  mental  quali 
ties,  a  picture  that  should  harmonize  with  my  previous 
idea  of  the  fair  unseen.  By  dint,  however,  of  select 
ing  what  it  liked,  and  rejecting  what  it  did  not  like, 
and  giving  a  touch  here  and  a  touch  there,  it  soon  fin 
ished  out  a  satisfactory  portrait. 

"  Julia  must  be  tall,"  thought  I,  "  and  of  exquisite 
grace  and  dignity.  She  is  not  quite  so  courtly  as  her 
father,  for  she  has  been  brought  up  in  the  retirement 
of  the  country.  Neither  is  she  of  such  vivacious  de- 


62  MOUNTJOY 

portment ;  for  the  tones  of  her  voice  are  soft  and  plain 
tive,  and  she  loves  pathetic  music.  She  is  rather 
pensive  —  yet  not  too  pensive ;  just  what  is  called  inter 
esting.  Her  eyes  are  like  her  father's,  except  that  they 
are  of  a  purer  blue,  and  more  tender  and  languishing. 
She  has  light  hair  —  not  exactly  flaxen,  for  I  do  not 
like  flaxen  hair,  but  between  that  and  auburn.  In  a 
word,  she  is  a  tall,  elegant,  imposing,  languishing, 
blue-eyed,  romantic-looking  beauty."  And  having  thus 
finished  her  picture,  I  felt  ten  times  more  in  love  with 
her  than  ever. 

I  felt  so  much  recovered,  that  I  would  at  once  have 
left  my  room,  but  Mr.  Somerville  objected  to  it.  He 
had  sent  early  word  to  my  family  of  my  safety ;  and 
my  father  arrived  in  the  course  of  the  morning.  He 
was  shocked  at  learning  the  risk  I  had  run,  but  re 
joiced  to  find  me  so  much  restored,  and  was  warm  in 
his  thanks  to  Mr.  Somerville  for  his  kindness.  The 
other  only  required,  in  return,  that  I  might  remain  two 
or  three  days  as  his  guest,  to  give  time  for  my  recov 
ery,  and  for  our  forming  a  closer  acquaintance,  a 
request  which  my  father  readily  granted.  Scipio  ac 
cordingly  accompanied  my  father  home,  and  returned 
with  a  supply  of  clothes,  and  with  affectionate  letters 
from  my  mother  and  sisters. 

The  next  morning,  aided  by  Scipio,  I  made  my  toilet 
with  rather  more  care  than  usual,  and  descended  the 
stairs  with  some  trepidation,  eager  to  see  the  original 
of  the  portrait  which  had  been  so  completely  pictured 
in  my  imagination. 

On  entering  the  parlor,  I  found  it  deserted.  Like 
the  rest  of  the  house,  it  was  furnished  in  a  foreign 
style.  The  curtains  were  of  French  silk;  there  were 
Grecian  couches,  marble  tables,  pier-glasses,  and  chan 
deliers.  What  chiefly  attracted  my  eye,  were  docu 
ments  of  female  taste  that  I  saw  around  me.  —  a 


MOUNTJOY  63 

piano,  with  an  ample  stock  of  Italian  music;  a  book 
of  poetry  lying  on  the  sofa;  a  vase  of  fresh  flowers 
on  a  table,  and  a  portfolio  open  with  a  skilful  and 
half-finished  sketch  of  them.  In  the  window  was  a 
Canary  bird,  in  a  gilt  cage ;  and  near  by,  the  harp  that 
had  been  in  Julia's  arms.  Happy  harp!  But  where 
was  the  being  that  reigned  in  this  little  empire  of 
delicacies?  —  that  breathed  poetry  and  song,  and  dwelt 
among  birds  and  flowers,  and  rose-colored  curtains? 

Suddenly  I  heard  the  hall-door  fly  open,  the  quick 
pattering  of  light  steps,  a  wild,  capricious  strain  of 
music,  and  the  shrill  barking  of  a  dog.  A  light  frolic 
nymph  of  fifteen  came  tripping  into  the  room,  playing 
on  a  flageolet,  with  a  little  spaniel  romping  after  her. 
Her  gypsy-hat  had  fallen  back  upon  her  shoulders ;  a 
profusion  of  glossy  brown  hair  was  blown  in  rich  ring 
lets  about  her  face,  which  beamed  through  them  with 
the  brightness  of  smiles  and  dimples. 

At  sight  of  me  she  stopped  short,  in  the  most  beauti 
ful  confusion,  stammered  out  a  word  or  two  about 
looking  for  her  father,  glided  out  of  the  door,  and  I 
heard  her  bounding  up  the  staircase,  like  a  frightened 
fawn,  with  the  little  dog  barking  after  her. 

When  Miss  Somerville  returned  to  the  parlor,  she. 
was  quite  a  different  being.  She  entered,  stealing 
along  by  her  mother's  side,  with  noiseless  step  and 
sweet  timidity;  her  hair  was  prettily  adjusted,  and  a 
soft  blush  mantled  on  her  damask  cheek.  Mr.  Somer 
ville  accompanied  the  ladies,  and  introduced  me  regu 
larly  to  them.  There  were  many  kind  inquiries,  and 
much  sympathy  expressed  on  the  subject  of  my  nauti 
cal  accident,  and  some  remarks  upon  the  wild  scenery 
of  the  neighborhood,  with  which  the  ladies  seemed 
perfectly  acquainted. 

"  You  must  know,"  said  Mr.  Somerville,  "  that  we 
are  great  navigators,  and  delight  in  exploring  every 
nook  and  corner  of  the  river.  My  daughter,  too,  is  a 


64  MOUNTJOY 

great  hunter  of  the  picturesque,  and  transfers  every 
rock  and  glen  to  her  portfolio.  By  the  way,  my  dear, 
show  Mr.  Mountjoy  that  pretty  scene  you  have  lately 
sketched."  Julia  complied,  blushing,  and  drew  from 
her  portfolio  a  colored  sketch.  I  almost  started  at  the 
sight.  It  was  my  favorite  brook.  A  sudden  thought 
darted  across  my  mind.  I  glanced  down  my  eye,  and 
beheld  the  divinest  little  foot  in  the  world.  Oh,  bliss 
ful  conviction!  The  struggle  of  my  affections  was  at 
an  end.  The  voice  and  the  footstep  were  no  longer  at 
variance.  Julia  Somerville  was  the  nymph  of  the 
fountain ! 

What  conversation  passed  during  breakfast  I  do 
not  recollect,  and  hardly  was  conscious  of  at  the  time, 
for  my  thoughts  were  in  complete  confusion.  I  wished 
to  gaze  on  Miss  Somerville,  but  did  not  dare.  Once, 
indeed,  I  ventured  a  glance.  She  was  at  that  moment 
darting  a  similar  one  from  under  a  covert  of  ringlets. 
Our  eyes  seemed  shocked  by  the  rencontre,  and  fell; 
hers  through  the  natural  modesty  of  her  sex,  mine 
through  a  bashfulness  produced  by  the  previous  work 
ings  of  my  imagination.  That  glance,  however,  went 
like  a  sunbeam  to  my  heart. 

A  convenient  mirror  favored  my  diffidence,  and  gave 
me  the  reflection  of  Miss  Somerville's  form.  It  is  true 
it  only  presented  the  back  of  her  head,  but  she  had  the 
merit  of  an  ancient  statue;  contemplate  her  from  any 
point  of  view,  she  was  beautiful.  And  yet  she  was 
totally  different  from  everything  I  had  before  con 
ceived  of  beauty.  She  was  not  the  serene,  meditative 
maid  that  I  had  pictured  the  nymph  of  the  fountain ; 
nor  the  tall,  soft,  languishing,  blue-eyed,  dignified 
being  that  I  had  fancied  the  minstrel  of  the  harp. 
There  was  nothing  of  dignity  about  her;  she  was 
girlish  in  her  appearance,  and  scarcely  of  the  middle 
size;  but  then  there  was  the  tenderness  of  budding 


MOUNTJOY  65 

youth ;  the  sweetness  of  the  half -blown  rose,  when  not 
a  tint  or  perfume  has  been  withered  or  exhaled ;  there 
were  smiles  and  dimples,  and  all  the  soft  witcheries 
of  ever-varying  expression.  I  wondered  that  I  could 
ever  have  admired  any  other  style  of  beauty. 

After  breakfast  Mr.  Somerville  departed  to  attend 
to  the  concerns  of  his  estate,  and  gave  me  in  charge 
of  the  ladies.  Mrs.  Somerville  also  was  called  away 
by  household  cares,  and  I  was  left  alone  with  Julia! 
Here  then  was  the  situation  which  of  all  others  I  had 
most  coveted.  I  was  in  the  presence  of  the  lovely  being 
that  had  so  long  been  the  desire  of  my  heart.  We 
were  alone;  propitious  opportunity  for  a  lover!  Did 
I  seize  upon  it?  Did  I  break  out  in  one  of  my  accus 
tomed  rhapsodies?  No  such  thing!  Never  was  being 
more  awkwardly  embarrassed. 

"What  can  be  the  cause  of  this?"  thought  I. 
"  Surely  I  cannot  stand  in  awe  of  this  young  girl.  I 
am  of  course  her  superior  in  intellect,  and  am  never 
embarrassed  in  company  with  my  tutor,  notwithstand 
ing  all  his  wisdom." 

It  was  passing  strange.  I  felt  that  if  she  were  an 
old  woman,  I  should  be  quite  at  my  ease;  if  she  were 
even  an  ugly  woman,  I  should  make  out  very  well;  it 
was  her  beauty  that  overpowered  me.  How  little  do 
lovely  women  know  what  awful  beings  they  are,  in 
the  eyes  of  inexperienced  youth !  Young  men  brought 
up  in  the  fashionable  circles  of  our  cities  will  smile 
at  all  this.  Accustomed  to  mingle  incessantly  in  female 
society,  and  to  have  the  romance  of  the  heart  deadened 
by  a  thousand  frivolous  flirtations,  women  are  nothing 
but  women  in  their  eyes;  but  to  a  susceptible  youth 
like  myself,  brought  up  in  the  country,  they  are  per 
fect  divinities. 

Miss  Somerville  was  at  first  a  little  embarrassed 
herself ;  but,  somehow  or  other,  women  have  a  natural 
adroitness  in  recovering  their  self-possession;  they  are 

5 


66  MOUNTJOY 

more  alert  in  their  minds  and  graceful  in  their  man 
ners.  Besides,  I  was  but  an  ordinary  personage  in 
Miss  Somerville's  eyes;  she  was  not  under  the  in 
fluence  of  such  a  singular  course  of  imaginings  as  had 
surrounded  her,  in  my  eyes,  with  the  illusions  of  ro 
mance.  Perhaps,  too,  she  saw  the  confusion  in  the  op 
posite  camp,  and  gained  courage  from  the  discovery. 
At  any  rate,  she  was  the  first  to  take  the  field. 

Her  conversation,  however,  was  only  on  common 
place  topics,  and  in  an  easy,  well-bred  style.  I  en 
deavored  to  respond  in  the  same  manner;  but  I  was 
strangely  incompetent  to  the  task.  My  ideas  were 
frozen  up ;  even  words  seemed  to  fail  me.  I  was  ex 
cessively  vexed  at  myself,  for  I  wished  to  be  uncom 
monly  elegant.  I  tried  two  or  three  times  to  turn  a 
pretty  thought,  or  to  utter  a  fine  sentiment;  but  it 
would  come  forth  so  trite,  so  forced,  so  mawkish,  that 
I  was  ashamed  of  it.  My  very  voice  sounded  discord 
antly,  though  I  sought  to  modulate  it  into  the  softest 
tones.  "  The  truth  is,"  thought  I  to  myself,  "  I  cannot 
bring  my  mind  down  to  the  small  talk  necessary  for 
young  girls;  it  is  too  masculine  and  robust  for  the 
mincing  measure  of  parlor  gossip.  I  am  a  philosopher ; 
and  that  accounts  for  it." 

The  entrance  of  Mrs.  Somerville  at  length  gave  me 
relief.  I  at  once  breathed  freely,  and  felt  a  vast  deal 
of  confidence  come  over  me.  "  This  is  strange," 
thought  I,  "  that  the  appearance  of  another  woman 
should  revive  my  courage;  that  I  should  be  a  better 
match  for  two  women  than  one.  However,  since  it  is 
so,  I  will  take  advantage  of  the  circumstance,  and  let 
this  young  lady  see  that  I  am  not  so  great  a  simpleton 
as  she  probably  thinks  me." 

I  accordingly  took  up  the  book  of  poetry  which  lay 
upon  the  sofa.  It  was  Milton's  "Paradise  Lost." 
Nothing  could  have  been  more  fortunate ;  it  afforded 
a  fine  scope  for  my  favorite  vein  of  grandiloquence. 


MOUNTJOY  67 

I  went  largely  into  a  discussion  of  its  merits,  or  rather 
an  enthusiastic  eulogy  of  them.  My  observations 
were  addressed  to  Mrs.  Somerville,  for  I  found  I  could 
talk  to  her  with  more  ease  than  to  her  daughter.  She 
appeared  perfectly  alive  to  the  beauties  of  the  poet,  and 
disposed  to  meet  me  in  the  discussion;  but  it  was  not 
my  object  to  hear  her  talk;  it  was  to  talk  myself.  I 
anticipated  all  she  had  to  say,  overpowered  her  with 
the  copiousness  of  my  ideas,  and  supported  and  illus 
trated  them  by  long  citations  from  the  author. 

While  thus  holding  forth,  I  cast  a  side-glance  to  see 
how  Miss  Somerville  was  affected.  She  had  some  em 
broidery  stretched  on  a  frame  before  her,  but  had 
paused  in  her  labor,  and  was  looking  down,  as  if  lost 
in  mute  attention.  I  felt  a  glow  of  self-satisfaction; 
but  I  recollected,  at  the  same  time,  with  a  kind  of 
pique,  the  advantage  she  had  enjoyed  over  me  in  our 
tete-a-tete.  I  determined  to  push  my  triumph,  and 
accordingly  kept  on  with  redoubled  ardor,  until  I  had 
fairly  exhausted  my  subject,  or  rather  my  thoughts. 

I  had  scarce  come  to  a  full  stop,  when  Miss  Somer 
ville  raised  her  eyes  from  her  work  on  which  they  had 
been  fixed,  and  turning  to  her  mother,  observed :  "  I 
have  been  considering,  mamma,  whether  to  work  these 
flowers  plain,  or  in  colors." 

Had  an  ice-bolt  been  shot  to  my  heart,  it  could  not 
have  chilled  me  more  effectually.  "  What  a  fool," 
thought  I,  "  have  I  been  making  myself,  —  squander 
ing  away  fine  thoughts  and  fine  language  upon  a  light 
mind  and  an  ignorant  ear!  This  girl  knows  nothing 
of  poetry.  She  has  no  soul,  I  fear,  for  its  beauties. 
Can  any  one  have  real  sensibility  of  heart,  and  not  be 
alive  to  poetry?  However,  she  is  young;  this  part  of 
her  education  has  been  neglected ;  there  is  time  enough 
to  remedy  it.  I  will  be  her  preceptor.  I  will  kindle 
in  her  mind  the  sacred  flame,  and  lead  her  through  the 
fairy  land  of  song.  But,  after  all,  it  is  rather  unfor- 


68  MOUNTJOY 

tunate  that  I  should  have  fallen  in  love  with  a  woman 
who  knows  nothing  of  poetry." 

I  passed  a  day  not  altogether  satisfactory.  I  was 
a  little  disappointed  that  Miss  Somerville  did  not  show 
more  poetical  feeling.  "  I  am  afraid,  after  all,"  said 
I  to  myself,  "  she  is  light  and  girlish,  and  more  fitted 
to  pluck  wild  flowers,  play  on  the  flageolet,  and  romp 
with  little  dogs,  than  to  converse  with  a  man  of  my 
turn." 

I  believe,  however,  to  tell  the  truth,  I  was  more 
out  of  humor  with  myself.  I  thought  I  had  made  the 
worst  first  appearance  that  ever  hero  made,  either  in 
novel  or  fairy  tale.  I  was  out  of  all  patience  when 
I  called  to  mind  my  awkward  attempts  at  ease  and 
elegance,  in  the  tete-a-tete.  And  then  my  intolerable 
long  lecture  about  poetry,  to  catch  the  applause  of  a 
heedless  auditor!  But  there  I  was  not  to  blame.  I 
had  certainly  been  eloquent ;  it  was  her  fault  that  the 
eloquence  was  wasted.  To  meditate  upon  the  em 
broidery  of  a  flower,  when  I  was  expatiating  on  the 
beauties  of  Milton!  She  might  at  least  have  admired 
the  poetry,  if  she  did  not  relish  the  manner  in  which 
it  was  delivered;  though  that  was  not  despicable,  for 
I  had  recited  passages  in  my  best  style,  which  my 
mother  and  sisters  had  always  considered  equal  to  a 
play.  "  Oh,  it  is  evident,"  thought  I,  "  Miss  Somer 
ville  has  very  little  soul !  " 

Such  were  my  fancies  and  cogitations  during  the 
day,  the  greater  part  of  which  was  spent  in  my 
chamber;  for  I  was  still  languid.  My  evening  was 
passed  in  the  drawing-room,  where  I  overlooked  Miss 
Somerville's  portfolio  of  sketches.  They  were  exe 
cuted  with  great  taste,  and  showed  a  nice  observation 
of  the  peculiarities  of  Nature.  They  were  all  her  own, 
and  free  from  those  cunning  tints  and  touches  of  the 
drawing-master,  by  which  young  ladies'  drawings,  like 


MOUNTJOY  69 

their  heads,  are  dressed  up  for  company.  There  was 
no  garish  and  vulgar  trick  of  colors,  either;  all  was 
executed  with  singular  truth  and  simplicity. 

"  And  yet,"  thought  I,  "  this  little  being,  who  has 
so  pure  an  eye  to  take  in,  as  in  a  limpid  brook,  all  the 
graceful  forms  and  magic  tints  of  Nature,  has  no  soul 
for  poetry !  " 

Mr.  Somerville,  toward  the  latter  part  of  the  even 
ing,  observing  my  eye  to  wander  occasionally  to  the 
harp,  interpreted  and  met  my  wishes  with  his  accus 
tomed  civility. 

"  Julia,  my  dear,"  said  he,  "  Mr.  Mountjoy  would 
like  to  hear  a  little  music  from  your  harp ;  let  us  hear, 
too,  the  sound  of  your  voice." 

Julia  immediately  complied,  without  any  of  that 
hesitation  and  difficulty  by  which  young  ladies  are  apt 
to  make  the  company  pay  dear  for  bad  music.  She 
sang  a  sprightly  strain,  in  a  brilliant  style,  that  came 
trilling  playfully  over  the  ear;  and  the  bright  eye  and 
dimpling  smile  showed  that  her  little  heart  danced  with 
the  song.  Her  pet  Canary  bird,  who  hung  close  by, 
was  wakened  by  the  music,  and  burst  forth  into  an 
emulating  strain.  Julia  smiled  with  a  pretty  air  of 
defiance,  and  played  louder. 

After  some  time  the  music  changed,  and  ran  into  a 
plaintive  strain,  in  a  minor  key.  Then  it  was  that  all 
the  former  witchery  of  her  voice  came  over  me;  then 
it  was  that  she  seemed  to  sing  from  the  heart  and  to 
the  heart.  Her  fingers  moved  about  the  chords  as  if 
they  scarcely  touched  them.  Her  whole  manner  and 
appearance  changed ;  her  eyes  beamed  with  the  softest 
expression ;  her  countenance,  her  frame,  —  all  seemed 
subdued  into  tenderness.  She  rose  from  the  harp,  leav 
ing  it  still  vibrating  with  sweet  sounds,  and  moved 
toward  her  father,  to  bid  him  good-night. 

His  eyes  had  been  fixed  on  her  intently  during  her 
performance.  As  she  came  before  him,  he  parted  her 


7o  MOUNTJOY 

shining  ringlets  with  both  his  hands,  and  looked  down 
with  the  fondness  of  a  father  on  her  innocent  face. 
The  music  seemed  still  lingering  in  its  lineaments,  and 
the  action  of  her  father  brought  a  moist  gleam  in  her 
eye.  He  kissed  her  fair  forehead,  after  the  French 
mode  of  parental  caressing :  "  Good-night,  and  God 
bless  you,"  said  he,  "  my  good  little  girl !  " 

Julia  tripped  away  with  a  tear  in  her  eye,  a  dimple 
in  her  cheek,  and  a  light  heart  in  her  bosom.  I  thought 
it  the  prettiest  picture  of  paternal  and  filial  affection  I 
had  ever  seen. 

When  I  retired  to  bed  a  new  train  of  thoughts 
crowded  into  my  brain.  "  After  all,"  said  I  to  myself, 
"  it  is  clear  this  girl  has  a  soul,  though  she  was  not 
moved  by  my  eloquence.  She  has  all  the  outward 
signs  and  evidences  of  poetic  feeling.  She  paints  well, 
and  has  an  eye  for  Nature.  She  is  a  fine  musician,  and 
enters  into  the  very  soul  of  song.  What  a  pity  that 
she  knows  nothing  of  poetry!  But  we  will  see  what 
is  to  be  done.  I  am  irretrievably  in  love  with  her; 
what  then  am  I  to  do?  Come  down  to  the  level  of 
her  mind,  or  endeavor  to  raise  her  to  some  kind  of  in 
tellectual  equality  with  myself?  That  is  the  most 
generous  course.  She  will  look  up  to  me  as  a  bene 
factor.  I  shall  become  associated  in  her  mind  with 
the  lofty  thoughts  and  harmonious  graces  of  poetry. 
She  is  apparently  docile;  besides,  the  difference  of  our 
ages  will  give  me  an  ascendency  over  her.  She  can 
not  be  above  sixteen  years  of  age,  and  I  am  full  turned 
of  twenty."  So,  having  built  this  most  delectable  of 
air-castles,  I  fell  asleep. 

The  next  morning  I  was  quite  a  different  being.  I 
no  longer  felt  fearful  of  stealing  a  glance  at  Julia ;  on 
the  contrary,  I  contemplated  her  steadily,  with  the 
benignant  eye  of  a  benefactor.  Shortly  after  break 
fast  I  found  myself  alone  with  her,  as  I  had  on  the 


MOUNTJOY  71 

preceding  morning;  but  I  felt  nothing  of  the  awk 
wardness  of  our  previous  tete-a-tete.  I  was  elevated 
by  the  consciousness  of  my  intellectual  superiority,  and 
should  almost  have  felt  a  sentiment  of  pity  for  the 
ignorance  of  the  lovely  little  being,  if  I  had  not  felt 
also  the  assurance  that  I  should  be  able  to  dispel  it. 
"  But  it  is  time,"  thought  I,  "  to  open  school." 

Julia  was  occupied  in  arranging  some  music  on  her 
piano.  I  looked  over  two  or  three  songs;  they  were 
Moore's  Irish  Melodies. 

"  These  are  pretty  things,"  said  I,  flirting  the  leaves 
over  lightly,  and  giving  a  slight  shrug,  by  way  of 
qualifying  the  opinion. 

"  Oh,  I  love  them  of  all  things !  "  said  Julia,  "  they're 
so  touching!  " 

"  Then  you  like  them  for  the  poetry  ?  "  said  I,  with 
an  encouraging  smile. 

"  Oh  yes ;    she  thought  them  charmingly  written." 

Now  was  my  time.  "  Poetry,"  said  I,  assuming  a 
didactic  attitude  and  air,  —  "  poetry  is  one  of  the  most 
pleasing  studies  that  can  occupy  a  youthful  mind.  It 
renders  us  susceptible  of  the  gentle  impulses  of  human 
ity,  and  cherishes  a  delicate  perception  of  all  that  is 
virtuous  and  elevated  in  morals,  and  graceful  and 
beautiful  in  physics.  It  " 

I  was  going  on  in  a  style  that  would  have  graced 
a  professor  of  rhetoric,  when  I  saw  a  light  smile  play 
ing  about  Miss  Somerville's  mouth,  and  that  she  began 
to  turn  over  the  leaves  of  a  music-book.  I  recollected 
her  inattention  to  my  discourse  of  the  preceding  morn 
ing.  "  There  is  no  fixing  her  light  mind,"  thought  I, 
"  by  abstract  theory ;  we  will  proceed  practically."  As 
it  happened,  the  identical  volume  of  Milton's  "  Para 
dise  Lost  "  was  lying  at  hand. 

"  Let  me  recommend  to  you,  my  young  friend,"  said 
I,  in  one  of  those  tones  of  persuasive  admonition,  which 
I  had  so  often  loved  in  Glencoe,  — "  let  me  recom- 


72  MOUNTJOY 

mend  to  you  this  admirable  poem :  you  will  find  in  it 
sources  of  intellectual  enjoyment  far  superior  to  those 
songs  which  have  delighted  you."  Julia  looked  at  the 
book,  and  then  at  me,  with  a  whimsically  dubious  air. 
"  Milton's  '  Paradise  Lost '?  "  said  she;  "  oh,  I  know 
the  greater  part  of  that  by  heart." 

I  had  not  expected  to  find  my  pupil  so  far  advanced ; 
however,  the  "  Paradise  Lost "  is  a  kind  of  school- 
book,  and  its  finest  passages  are  given  to  young  ladies 
as  tasks. 

"  I  find,"  said  I  to  myself,  "  I  must  not  treat  her  as 
so  complete  a  novice ;  her  inattention,  yesterday,  could 
not  have  proceeded  from  absolute  ignorance,  but  merely 
from  a  want  of  poetic  feeling.  I  '11  try  her  again." 

I  now  determined  to  dazzle  her  with  my  own  erudi 
tion,  and  launched  into  a  harangue  that  would  have 
done  honor  to  an  institute.  Pope,  Spenser,  Chaucer, 
and  the  old  dramatic  writers,  were  all  dipped  into,  with 
the  excursive  flight  of  a  swallow.  I  did  not  confine 
myself  to  English  poets,  but  gave  a  glance  at  the 
French  and  Italian  schools :  I  passed  over  Ariosto  in 
full  wing,  but  paused  on  Tasso's  "  Jerusalem  De 
livered."  I  dwelt  on  the  character  of  Clorinda: 
"  There  's  a  character,"  said  I,  "  that  you  will  find  well 
worthy  a  woman's  study.  It  shows  to  what  exalted 
heights  of  heroism  the  sex  can  rise;  how  gloriously 
they  may  share  even  in  the  stern  concerns  of  men." 

"  For  my  part,"  said  Julia,  gently  taking  advantage 
of  a  pause,  —  "  for  my  part,  I  prefer  the  character  of 
Sophronia." 

I  was  thunderstruck.  She  then  had  read  Tasso! 
This  girl  that  I  had  been  treating  as  an  ignoramus  in 
poetry!  She  proceeded,  with  a  slight  glow  of  the 
cheek,  summoned  up  perhaps  by  a  casual  glow  of 
feeling :  — 

"  I  do  not  admire  those  masculine  heroines,"  said 
she,  "  who  aim  at  the  bold  qualities  of  the  opposite 


MOUNTJOY  73 

sex.  Now  Sophronia  only  exhibits  the  real  qualities 
of  a  woman,  wrought  up  to  their  highest  excitement. 
She  is  modest,  gentle,  and  retiring,  as  it  becomes  a 
woman  to  be;  but  she  has  all  the  strength  of  affection 
proper  to  a  woman.  She  cannot  fight  for  her  people, 
as  Clorinda  does,  but  she  can  offer  herself  up,  and  die, 
to  serve  them.  You  may  admire  Clorinda,  but  you 
surely  would  be  more  apt  to  love  Sophronia;  at  least," 
added  she,  suddenly  appearing  to  recollect  herself,  and 
blushing  at  having  launched  into  such  a  discussion,  — 
"  at  least,  that  is  what  papa  observed,  when  we  read 
the  poem  together." 

"  Indeed,"  said  I,  dryly,  for  I  felt  disconcerted  and 
nettled  at  being  unexpectedly  lectured  by  my  pupil,  — 
"  indeed,  I  do  not  exactly  recollect  the  passage." 

"  Oh,"  said  Julia,  "  I  can  repeat  it  to  you  "  ;  and  she 
immediately  gave  it  in  Italian. 

Heavens  and  earth !  —  here  was  a  situation !  I  knew 
no  more  of  Italian  than  I  did  of  the  language  of  Psal- 
manazar.  What  a  dilemma  for  a  would-be-wise  man 
to  be  placed  in !  I  saw  Julia  waited  for  my  opinion. 

"  In  fact,"  said  I,  hesitating,  "I  —  I  do  not  exactly 
understand  Italian." 

"  Oh,"  said  Julia,  with  the  utmost  naivete,  "  I  have 
no  doubt  it  is  very  beautiful  in  the  translation." 

I  was  glad  to  break  up  school  and  get  back  to  my 
chamber,  full  of  the  mortification  which  a  wise  man 
in  love  experiences  on  finding  his  mistress  wiser  than 
himself.  "  Translation !  translation !  "  muttered  I  to 
myself,  as  I  jerked  the  door  shut  behind  me.  "  I  am 
surprised  my  father  has  never  had  me  instructed  in  the 
modern  languages.  They  are  all-important.  What  is 
the  use  of  Latin  and  Greek  ?  No  one  speaks  them ;  but 
here,  the  moment  I  make  my  appearance  in  the  world, 
a  little  girl  slaps  Italian  in  my  face.  However,  thank 
Heaven,  a  language  is  easily  learned.  The  moment 
I  return  home,  I  '11  set  about  studying  Italian ;  and  to 


74  MOUNTJOY 

prevent  future  surprise,  I  will  study  Spanish  and  Ger 
man  at  the  same  time ;  and  if  any  young  lady  attempts 
to  quote  Italian  upon  me  again,  I  '11  bury  her  under 
a  heap  of  High  Dutch  poetry!  " 

I  felt  now  like  some  mighty  chieftain,  who  has  car 
ried  the  war  into  a  weak  country,  with  full  confidence 
of  success,  and  been  repulsed  and  obliged  to  draw  off 
his  forces  from  before  some  inconsiderable  fortress. 

"  However,"  thought  I,  "  I  have  as  yet  brought  only 
my  light  artillery  into  action ;  we  shall  see  what  is  to 
be  done  with  my  heavy  ordnance.  Julia  is  evidently 
well  versed  in  poetry;  but  it  is  natural  she  should  be 
so ;  it  is  allied  to  painting  and  music,  and  is  congenial 
to  the  light  graces  of  the  female  character.  We  will 
try  her  on  graver  themes." 

I  felt  all  my  pride  awakened;  it  even  for  a  time 
swelled  higher  than  my  love.  I  was  determined  com 
pletely  to  establish  my  mental  superiority,  and  subdue 
the  intellect  of  this  little  being:  it  would  then  be  time 
to  sway  the  sceptre  of  gentle  empire,  and  win  the  affec 
tions  of  her  heart. 

Accordingly,  at  dinner  I  again  took  the  field,  en 
potence.  I  now  addressed  myself  to  Mr.  Somerville, 
for  I  was  about  to  enter  upon  topics  in  which  a  young 
girl  like  her  could  not  be  well  versed.  I  led,  or  rather 
forced,  the  conversation  into  a  vein  of  historical  erudi 
tion,  discussing  several  of  the  most  prominent  facts  of 
ancient  history  and  accompanying  them  with  sound, 
indisputable  apothegms. 

Mr.  Somerville  listened  to  me  with  the  air  of  a  man 
receiving  information.  I  was  encouraged,  and  went 
on  gloriously  from  theme  to  theme  of  school  declama 
tion.  I  sat  with  Marius  on  the  ruins  of  Carthage;  I 
defended  the  bridge  with  Horatius  Codes ;  thrust  my 
hand  into  the  flame  with  Martius  Scsevola,  and  plunged 
with  Curtius  into  the  yawning  gulf ;  I  fought  side  by 
side  with  Leonidas,  at  the  straits  of  Thermopylae ;  and 


MOUNTJOY  75 

was  going  full  drive  into  the  battle  of  Plataea,  when 
my  memory,  which  is  the  worst  in  the  world,  failed  me, 
just  as  I  wanted  the  name  of  the  Lacedemonian 
commander. 

"  Julia,  my  dear,"  said  Mr.  Somerville,  "  perhaps 
you  may  recollect  the  name  of  which  Mr.  Mount  joy  is 
in  quest?  " 

Julia  colored  slightly :  "  I  believe,"  said  she,  in  a 
low  voice,  —  "I  believe  it  was  Pausanias." 

This  unexpected  sally,  instead  of  reinforcing  me, 
threw  my  whole  scheme  of  battle  into  confusion,  and 
the  Athenians  remained  unmolested  in  the  field. 

I  am  half  inclined,  since,  to  think  Mr.  Somerville 
meant  this  as  a  sly  hit  at  my  schoolboy  pedantry ;  but 
he  was  too  well  bred  not  to  seek  to  relieve  me  from  my 
mortification.  "  Oh !  "  said  he,  "  Julia  is  our  family 
book  of  reference  for  names,  dates,  and  distances,  and 
has  an  excellent  memory  for  history  and  geography." 

I  now  became  desperate ;  as  a  last  resource,  I  turned 
to  metaphysics.  "  If  she  is  a  philosopher  in  petticoats," 
thought  I,  "  it  is  all  over  with  me." 

Here,  however,  I  had  the  field  to  myself.  I  gave 
chapter  and  verse  of  my  tutor's  lectures,  heightened  by 
all  his  poetical  illustrations :  I  even  went  farther  than 
he  had  ever  ventured,  and  plunged  into  such  depths  of 
metaphysics,  that  I  was  in  danger  of  sticking  in  the 
mire  at  the  bottom.  Fortunately,  I  had  auditors  who 
apparently  could  not  detect  my  flounderings.  Neither 
Mr.  Somerville  nor  his  daughter  offered  the  least 
interruption. 

When  the  ladies  had  retired,  Mr.  Somerville  sat 
some  time  with  me;  and  as  I  was  no  longer  anxious 
to  astonish,  I  permitted  myself  to  listen,  and  found 
that  he  was  really  agreeable.  He  was  quite  communi 
cative,  and  from  his  conversation,  I  was  enabled  to 
form  a  juster  idea  of  his  daughter's  character,  and  the 
mode  in  which  she  had  been  brought  up.  Mr.  Somer- 


76  MOUNTJOY 

ville  had  mingled  much  with  the  world,  and  with  wh'at 
is  termed  fashionable  society.  He  had  experienced 
its  cold  elegances,  and  gay  insincerities;  its  dissipa 
tion  of  the  spirits,  and  squanderings  of  the  heart.  Like 
many  men  of  the  world,  though  he  had  wandered  too 
far  from  Nature  ever  to  return  to  it,  yet  he  had  the 
good  taste  and  good  feeling  to  look  back  fondly  to  its 
simple  delights,  and  to  determine  that  his  child,  if 
possible,  should  never  leave  them.  He  had  superin 
tended  her  education  with  scrupulous  care,  storing  her 
mind  with  the  graces  of  polite  literature,  and  with  such 
knowledge  as  would  enable  it  to  furnish  its  own  amuse 
ment  and  occupation,  and  giving  her  all  the  accomplish 
ments  that  sweeten  and  enliven  the  circle  of  domestic 
life.  He  had  been  particularly  sedulous  to  exclude  all 
fashionable  affectations ;  all  false  sentiment,  false 
sensibility,  and  false  romance.  "  Whatever  advantages 
she  may  possess,"  said  he,  "  she  is  quite  unconscious  of 
them.  She  is  a  capricious  little  being,  in  everything 
but  her  affections;  she  is,  however,  free  from  art; 
simple,  ingenuous,  innocent,  amiable,  and,  I  thank 
God!  happy." 

Such  was  the  eulogy  of  a  fond  father,  delivered  with 
a  tenderness  that  touched  me.  I  could  not  help  mak 
ing  a  casual  inquiry  whether,  among  the  graces  of 
polite  literature,  he  had  included  a  slight  tincture  of 
metaphysics.  He  smiled,  and  told  me  he  had  not. 

On  the  whole,  when,  as  usual,  that  night,  I  summed 
up  the  day's  observations  on  my  pillow,  I  was  not  alto 
gether  dissatisfied.  "  Miss  Somerville,"  said  I,  "  loves 
poetry,  and  I  like  her  the  better  for  it.  She  has  the 
advantage  of  me  in  Italian:  agreed;  what  is  it  to 
know  a  variety  of  languages,  but  merely  to  have  a 
variety  of  sounds  to  express  the  same  idea?  Original 
thought  is  the  ore  of  the  mind ;  language  is  but  the 
accidental  stamp  and  coinage,  by  which  it  is  put  into 
circulation.  If  I  can  furnish  an  original  idea,  what 


MOUNTJOY  77 

care  I  how  many  languages  she  can  translate  it  into? 
She  may  be  able,  also,  to  quote  names,  and  dates,  and 
latitudes,  better  than  I ;  but  that  is  a  mere  effort  of  the 
memory.  I  admit  she  is  more  accurate  in  history  and 
geography  than  I;  but  then  she  knows  nothing  of 
metaphysics." 

I  had  now  sufficiently  recovered  to  return  home; 
yet  I  could  not  think  of  leaving  Mr.  Somerville's, 
without  having  a  little  farther  conversation  with  him 
on  the  subject  of  his  daughter's  education. 

"  This  Mr.  Somerville,"  thought  I,  "  is  a  very  ac 
complished,  elegant  man;  he  has  seen  a  good  deal  of 
the  world,  and,  upon  the  whole,  has  profited  by  what 
he  has  seen.  He  is  not  without  information,  and,  as 
far  as  he  thinks,  appears  to  think  correctly;  but  after 
all,  he  is  rather  superficial,  and  does  not  think  pro 
foundly.  He  seems  to  take  no  delight  in  those  meta 
physical  abstractions  that  are  the  proper  aliment  of 
masculine  minds."  I  called  to  mind  various  occasions 
in  which  I  had  indulged  largely  in  metaphysical  dis 
cussions,  but  could  recollect  no  instance  where  I  had 
been  able  to  draw  him  out.  He  had  listened,  it  is 
true,  with  attention,  and  smiled  as  if  in  acquiescence, 
but  had  always  appeared  to  avoid  reply.  Besides,  I 
had  made  several  sad  blunders  in  the  glow  of  eloquent 
declamation ;  but  he  had  never  interrupted  me,  to  notice 
and  correct  them,  as  he  would  have  done  had  he  been 
versed  in  the  theme. 

"  Now  it  is  really  a  great  pity,"  resumed  I,  "  that 
he  should  have  the  entire  management  of  Miss  Somer 
ville's  education.  What  a  vast  advantage  it  would 
be,  if  she  could  be  put  for  a  little  time  under  the  su 
perintendence  of  Glencoe.  He  would  throw  some 
deeper  shades  of  thought  into  her  mind,  which  at  pres 
ent  is  all  sunshine;  not  but  that  Mr.  Somerville  has 
done  very  well,  as  far  as  he  has  gone;  but  then  he 
has  merely  prepared  the  soil  for  the  strong  plants  of 


78  MOUNTJOY 

useful  knowledge.  She  is  well  versed  in  the  leading 
facts  of  history,  and  the  general  course  of  belles- 
lettres,"  said  I ;  "a  little  more  philosophy  would  do 
wonders." 

I  accordingly  took  occasion  to  ask  Mr.  Somerville 
for  a  few  moments'  conversation  in  his  study,  the 
morning  I  was  to  depart.  When  we  were  alone,  I 
opened  the  mater  fully  to  him.  I  commenced  with  the 
warmest  eulogium  of  Glencoe's  powers  of  mind,  and 
vast  acquirements,  and  ascribed  to  him  all  my  profi 
ciency  in  the  higher  branches  of  knowledge.  I  begged, 
therefore,  to  recommend  him  as  a  friend  calculated 
to  direct  the  studies  of  Miss  Somerville;  to  lead  her 
mind,  by  degrees,  to  the  contemplation  of  abstract 
principles,  and  to  produce  habits  of  philosophical 
analysis ;  "  which,"  added  I,  gently  smiling,  "  are  not 
often  cultivated  by  young  ladies."  I  ventured  to  hint, 
in  addition,  that  he  would  find  Mr.  Glencoe  a  most 
valuable  and  interesting  acquaintance  for  himself ;  one 
who  would  stimulate  and  evolve  the  powers  of  his 
mind;  and  who  might  open  to  him  tracts  of  inquiry 
and  speculation  to  which  perhaps  he  had  hitherto  been 
a  stranger. 

Mr.  Somerville  listened  with  grave  attention.  When 
I  had  finished,  he  thanked  me  in  the  politest  manner 
for  the  interest  I  took  in  the  welfare  of  his  daughter 
and  himself.  He  observed  that,  as  regarded  himself, 
he  was  afraid  he  was  too  old  to  benefit  by  the  instruc 
tions  of  Mr.  Glencoe,  and  that  as  to  his  daughter,  he 
was  afraid  her  mind  was  but  little  fitted  for  the  study 
of  metaphysics.  "  I  do  not  wish,"  continued  he,  "  to 
strain  her  intellects  with  subjects  they  cannot  grasp, 
but  to  make  her  familiarly  acquainted  with  those  that 
are  within  the  limits  of  her  capacity.  I  do  not  pretend 
to  prescribe  the  boundaries  of  female  genius,  and  am 
far  from  indulging  the  vulgar  opinion  that  women  are 
unfitted  by  Nature  for  the  highest  intellectual  pur- 


MOUNTJOY  79 

suits.  I  speak  only  with  reference  to  my  daughter's 
taste  and  talents.  She  will  never  make  a  learned 
woman;  nor  in  truth  do  I  desire  it;  for  such  is  the 
jealousy  of  our  sex,  as  to  mental  as  well  as  physical  as 
cendency,  that  a  learned  woman  is  not  always  the  hap 
piest.  I  do  not  wish  my  daughter  to  excite  envy,  nor 
to  battle  with  the  prejudices  of  the  world ;  but  to  glide 
peaceably  through  life,  on  the  good  will  and  kind 
opinion  of  her  friends.  She  has  ample  employment  for 
her  little  head  in  the  course  I  have  marked  out  for  her ; 
and  is  busy  at  present  with  some  branches  of  natural 
history,  calculated  to  awaken  her  perceptions  to  the 
beauties  and  wonders  of  Nature,  and  to  the  inex 
haustible  volume  of  wisdom  constantly  spread  open 
before  her  eyes.  I  consider  that  woman  most  likely 
to  make  an  agreeable  companion,  who  can  draw  topics 
of  pleasing  remark  from  every  natural  object;  and 
most  likely  to  be  cheerful  and  contented,  who  is  con 
tinually  sensible  of  the  order,  the  harmony,  and  the 
invariable  beneficence  that  reign  throughout  the  beau 
tiful  world  we  inhabit. 

"  But,"  added  he,  smiling,  "  I  am  betraying  myself 
into  a  lecture,  instead  of  merely  giving  a  reply  to  your 
kind  offer.  Permit  me  to  take  the  liberty,  in  return, 
of  inquiring  a  little  about  your  own  pursuits.  You 
speak  of  having  finished  your  education ;  but  of  course 
you  have  a  line  of  private  study  and  mental  occupation 
marked  out ;  for  you  must  know  the  importance,  both 
in  point  of  interest  and  happiness,  of  keeping  the  mind 
employed.  May  I  ask  what  system  you  observe  in 
your  intellectual  exercises  ?  " 

"  Oh,  as  to  system,"  I  observed,  "  I  could  never 
bring  myself  into  anything  of  the  kind.  I  thought  it 
best  to  let  my  genius  take  its  own  course,  as  it  al 
ways  acted  the  most  vigorously  when  stimulated  by 
inclination." 

Mr.    Somerville    shook    his    head.      "  This    same 


8o  MOUNTJOY 

genius,"  said  he,  "is  a  wild  quality,  that  runs  away 
with  our  most  promising  young  men.  It  has  become 
so  much  the  fashion,  too,  to  give  it  the  reins,  that  it  is 
now  thought  an  animal  of  too  noble  and  generous  a 
nature  to  be  brought  to  the  harness.  But  it  is  all  a 
mistake.  Nature  never  designed  these  high  endow 
ments  to  run  riot  through  society,  and  throw  the  whole 
system  into  confusion.  No,  my  dear  sir;  genius,  un 
less  it  acts  upon  system,  is  very  apt  to  be  a  useless 
quality  to  society;  sometimes  an  injurious,  and  cer 
tainly  a  very  uncomfortable  one,  to  its  possessor.  I 
have  had  many  opportunities  of  seeing  the  progress 
through  life  of  young  men  who  were  accounted 
geniuses,  and  have  found  it  too  often  end  in  early  ex 
haustion  and  bitter  disappointment ;  and  have  as  often 
noticed  that  these  effects  might  be  traced  to  a  total 
want  of  system.  There  were  no  habits  of  business,  of 
steady  purpose,  and  regular  application  superinduced 
upon  the  mind ;  everything  was  left  to  chance  and  im 
pulse,  and  native  luxuriance,  and  everything  of  course 
ran  to  waste  and  wild  entanglement.  Excuse  me  if  I 
am  tedious  on  this  point,  for  I  feel  solicitous  to  im 
press  it  upon  you,  being  an  error  extremely  prevalent 
in  our  country,  and  one  into  which  too  many  of  our 
youth  have  fallen.  I  am  happy,  however,  to  observe 
the  zeal  which  still  appears  to  actuate  you  for  the  ac 
quisition  of  knowledge,  and  augur  every  good  from 
the  elevated  bent  of  your  ambition.  May  I  ask  what 
has  been  your  course  of  study  for  the  last  six 
months  ?  " 

Never  was  question  more  unluckily  timed.  For  the 
last  six  months  I  had  been  absolutely  buried  in  novels 
and  romances. 

Mr.  Somerville  perceived  that  the  question  was  em 
barrassing,  and  with  his  invariable  good  breeding,  im 
mediately  resumed  the  conversation,  without  waiting 
for  a  reply.  He  took  care,  however,  to  turn  it  in  such 


MOUNTJOY  81 

a  way  as  to  draw  from  me  an  account  of  the  whole 
manner  in  which  I  had  been  educated,  and  the  various 
currents  of  reading  into  which  my  mind  had  run.  He 
then  went  on  to  discuss  briefly,  but  impressively,  the 
different  branches  of  knowledge  most  important  to  a 
young  man  in  my  situation;  and  to  my  surprise  I 
found  him  a  complete  master  of  those  studies  on  which 
I  had  supposed  him  ignorant,  and  on  which  I  had  been 
descanting  so  confidently. 

He  complimented  me,  however,  very  graciously, 
upon  the  progress  I  had  made,  but  advised  me  for  the 
present  to  turn  my  attention  to  the  physical  rather 
than  the  moral  sciences.  "  These  studies,"  said  he, 
"  store  a  man's  mind  with  valuable  facts,  and  at  the 
same  time  repress  self-confidence,  by  letting  him  know 
how  boundless  are  the  realms  of  knowledge,  and  how 
little  we  can  possibly  know.  Whereas  metaphysical 
studies,  though  of  an  ingenious  order  of  intellectual 
employment,  are  apt  to  bewilder  some  minds  with 
vague  speculations.  They  never  know  how  far  they 
have  advanced,  or  what  may  be  the  correctness  of  their 
favorite  theory.  They  render  many  of  our  young  men 
verbose  and  declamatory,  and  prone  to  mistake  the 
aberrations  of  their  fancy  for  the  inspirations  of  divine 
philosophy." 

I  could  not  but  interrupt  him,  to  assent  to  the  truth 
of  these  remarks,  and  to  say  that  it  had  been  my  lot, 
in  the  course  of  my  limited  experience,  to  encounter 
young  men  of  the  kind,  who  had  overwhelmed  me  by 
their  verbosity. 

Mr.  Somerville  smiled.  "  I  trust,"  said  he  kindly, 
"  that  you  will  guard  against  these  errors.  Avoid  the 
eagerness  with  which  a  young  man  is  apt  to  hurry  into 
conversation,  and  to  utter  the  crude  and  ill-digested 
notions  which  he  has  picked  up  in  his  recent  studies. 
Be  assured  that  extensive  and  accurate  knowledge  is 
the  slow  acquisition  of  a  studious  lifetime;  that  a 


82  MOUNTJOY 

young  man,  however  pregnant  his  wit  and  prompt  his 
talent,  can  have  mastered  but  the  rudiments  of  learn 
ing,  and,  in  a  manner,  attained  the  implements  of 
study.  Whatever  may  have  been  your  past  assiduity, 
you  must  be  sensible  that  as  yet  you  have  but  reached 
the  threshold  of  true  knowledge ;  but  at  the  same  time, 
you  have  the  advantage  that  you  are  still  very  young, 
and  have  ample  time  to  learn." 

Here  our  conference  ended.  I  walked  out  of  the 
study,  a  very  different  being  from  what  I  was  on  enter 
ing  it.  I  had  gone  in  with  the  air  of  a  professor  about 
to  deliver  a  lecture;  I  came  out  like  a  student,  who 
had  failed  in  his  examination,  and  been  degraded  in 
his  class. 

"  Very  young,"  and  "  on  the  threshold  of  knowl 
edge  !  "  This  was  extremely  flattering  to  one  who  had 
considered  himself  an  accomplished  scholar  and  pro 
found  philosopher! 

"  It  is  singular,"  thought  I ;  "  there  seems  to  have 
been  a  spell  upon  my  faculties  ever  since  I  have  been 
in  this  house.  I  certainly  have  not  been  able  to  do 
myself  justice.  Whenever  I  have  undertaken  to  ad 
vise,  I  have  had  the  tables  turned  upon  me.  It  must 
be  that  I  am  strange  and  diffident  among  people  I  am 
not  accustomed  to.  I  wish  they  could  hear  me  talk  at 
home!" 

"  After  all,"  added  I,  on  farther  reflection,  — 
"  after  all,  there  is  a  great  deal  of  force  in  what  Mr. 
Somerville  has  said.  Somehow  or  other,  these  men 
of  the  world  do  now  and  then  hit  upon  remarks  that 
would  do  credit  to  a  philosopher.  Some  of  his  gen 
eral  observations  came  so  home,  that  I  almost  thought 
they  were  meant  for  myself.  His  advice  about  adopt 
ing  a  system  of  study,  is  very  judicious.  I  will  im 
mediately  put  it  in  practice.  My  mind  shall  operate 
henceforward  with  the  regularity  of  clock-work." 

How  far  I  succeeded  in  adopting  this  plan,  how  I 


THE  BERMUDAS  83 

fared  in  the  farther  pursuit  of  knowledge,  and  how  I 
succeeded  in  my  suit  to  Julia  Somerville,  may  afford 
matter  for  a  farther  communication  to  the  public,  if 
this  simple  record  of  my  early  life  is  fortunate  enough 
to  excite  any  curiosity. 


THE   BERMUDAS 

A   SHAKSPEARIAN   RESEARCH 

Who  did  not  think,  till  within  these  foure  yeares,  but  that  these 
islands  had  been  rather  a  habitation  for  Divells,  than  fit  for  men 
to  dwell  in?  Who  did  not  hate  the  name,  when  hee  was  on  land, 
and  shun  the  place  when  he  was  on  the  seas?  But  behold  the  mis- 
prision  and  conceits  of  the  world !  For  true  and  large  experience 
hath  now  told  us,  it  is  one  of  the  sweetest  paradises  that  be  upon 
earth. 

A  Plaine  Descript.  of  the  Barmudas:   1613 

IN  the  course  of  a  voyage  home  from  England,  our 
ship  had  been  struggling,  for  two  or  three  weeks,  with 
perverse  head-winds  and  a  stormy  sea.  It  was  in  the 
month  of  May,  yet  the  weather  had  at  times  a  wintry 
sharpness,  and  it  was  apprehended  that  we  were  in  the 
neighborhood  of  floating  islands  of  ice,  which  at  that 
season  of  the  year  drift  out  of  the  Gulf  of  St.  Law 
rence,  and  sometimes  occasion  the  wreck  of  noble 
ships. 

Wearied  out  by  the  continued  opposition  of  the  ele 
ments,  our  captain  bore  away  to  the  south,  in  hopes  of 
catching  the  expiring  breath  of  the  trade-winds,  and 
making  what  is  called  the  southern  passage.  A  few 
days  wrought,  as  it  were,  a  magical  "  sea  change  "  in 
everything  around  us.  We  seemed  to  emerge  into  a 
different  world.  The  late  dark  and  angry  sea,  lashed 
up  into  roaring  and  swashing  surges,  became  calm  and 
sunny;  the  rude  winds  died  away;  and  gradually  a 
light  breeze  sprang  up  directly  aft,  filling  out  every 


84  THE  BERMUDAS 

sail,  and  wafting  us  smoothly  along  on  an  even  keel. 
The  air  softened  into  a  bland  and  delightful  tempera 
ture.  Dolphins  began  to  play  about  us;  the  nautilus 
came  floating  by,  like  a  fairy  ship,  with  its  mimic  sail 
and  rainbow  tints;  and  flying-fish,  from  time  to  time, 
made  their  short  excursive  flights,  and  occasionally 
fell  upon  the  deck.  The  cloaks  and  overcoats  in  which 
we  had  hitherto  wrapped  ourselves,  and  moped  about 
the  vessel,  were  thrown  aside;  for  a  summer  warmth 
had  succeeded  to  the  late  wintry  chills.  Sails  were 
stretched  as  awnings  over  the  quarter-deck,  to  protect 
us  from  the  midday  sun.  Under  these  we  lounged 
away  the  day,  in  luxurious  indolence,  musing,  with 
half-shut  eyes,  upon  the  quiet  ocean.  The  night  was 
scarcely  less  beautiful  than  the  day.  The  rising  moon 
sent  a  quivering  column  of  silver  along  the  undulating 
surface  of  the  deep,  and,  gradually  climbing  the  heaven, 
lit  up  our  towering  topsails  and  swelling  mainsails, 
and  spread  a  pale,  mysterious  light  around.  As  our 
ship  made  her  whispering  way  through  this  dreamy 
world  of  waters,  every  boisterous  sound  on  board  was 
charmed  to  silence;  and  the  low  whistle,  or  drowsy 
song,  of  a  sailor  from  the  forecastle,  or  the  tinkling  of 
a  guitar,  and  the  soft  warbling  of  a  female  voice  from 
the  quarter-deck,  seemed  to  derive  a  witching  melody 
from  the  scene  and  hour.  I  was  reminded  of  Oberon's 
exquisite  description  of  music  and  moonlight  on  the 
ocean :  — 

.    .    .  Thou  rememberest 
Since  once  I  sat  upon  a  promontory, 
And  heard  a  mermaid  on  a  dolphin's  back, 
Uttering  such  dulcet  and  harmonious  breath, 
That  the  rude  sea  grew  civil  at  her  song ; 
And  certain  stars  shot  madly  from  their  spheres, 
To  hear  the  sea-maid's  music. 

Indeed,  I  was  in  the  very  mood  to  conjure  up  all 
the  imaginary  beings  with  which  poetry  has  peopled 
old  Ocean,  and  almost  ready  to  fancy  I  heard  the  dis- 


THE  BERMUDAS  85 

tant  song  of  the  mermaid,  or  the  mellow  shell  of  the 
triton,  and  to  picture  to  myself  Neptune  and  Amphi- 
trite  with  all  their  pageant  sweeping  along  the  dim 
horizon. 

A  day  or  two  of  such  fanciful  voyaging  brought  us 
in  sight  of  the  Bermudas,  which  first  looked  like  mere 
summer  clouds,  peering  above  the  quiet  ocean.  All 
day  we  glided  along  in  sight  of  them,  with  just  wind 
enough  to  fill  our  sails;  and  never  did  land  appear 
more  lovely.  They  were  clad  in  emerald  verdure,  be 
neath  the  serenest  of  skies :  not  an  angry  wave  broke 
upon  their  quiet  shores,  and  small  fishing  craft,  riding 
on  the  crystal  waves,  seemed  as  if  hung  in  air.  It 
was  such  a  scene  that  Fletcher  pictured  to  himself, 
when  he  extolled  the  halcyon  lot  of  the  fisherman :  — 

Ah !  would  thou  knewest  how  much  it  better  were 
To  bide  among  the  simple  fisher-swains : 

No  shrieking  owl,  no  night-crow  lodgeth  here, 
Nor  is  our  simple  pleasure  mixed  with  pains. 

Our  sports  begin  with  the  beginning  year : 

In  calms,  to  pull  the  leaping  fish  to  land ; 

In  roughs,  to  sing  and  dance  along  the  yellow  sand. 

In  contemplating  these  beautiful  islands,  and  the 
peaceful  sea  around  them,  I  could  hardly  realize  that 
these  were  the  "  still  vexed  Bermoothes  "  of  Shak- 
speare,  once  the  dread  of  mariners,  and  infamous  in 
the  narratives  of  the  early  discoverers,  for  the  dangers 
and  disasters  which  beset  them.  Such,  however,  was 
the  case;  and  the  islands  derived  additional  interest 
in  my  eyes,  from  fancying  that  I  could  trace  in  their 
early  history,  and  in  the  superstitious  notions  connected 
with  them,  some  of  the  elements  of  Shakspeare's  wild 
and  beautiful  drama  of  the  "  Tempest."  I  shall  take 
the  liberty  of  citing  a  few  historical  facts  in  support  of 
this  idea,  which  may  claim  some  additional  attention 
from  the  American  reader,  as  being  connected  with 
the  first  settlement  of  Virginia. 


86  THE  BERMUDAS 

At  the  time  when  Shakspeare  was  in  the  fulness 
of  his  talent,  and  seizing  upon  everything  that  could 
furnish  aliment  to  his  imagination,  the  colonization  of 
Virginia  was  a  favorite  object  of  enterprise  among 
people  of  condition  in  England,  and  several  of  the 
courtiers  of  the  court  of  Queen  Elizabeth  were  per 
sonally  engaged  in  it.  In  the  year  1609  a  noble  arma 
ment  of  nine  ships  and  five  hundred  men  sailed  for 
the  relief  of  the  colony.  It  was  commanded  by  Sir 
George  Somers,  as  admiral,  a  gallant  and  generous 
gentleman,  above  sixty  years  of  age,  and  possessed  of 
an  ample  fortune,  yet  still  bent  upon  hardy  enterprise, 
and  ambitious  of  signalizing  himself  in  the  service  of 
his  country. 

On  board  of  his  flag-ship,  the  Sea-Vulture,  sailed 
also  Sir  Thomas  Gates,  lieutenant-general  of  the  col 
ony.  The  voyage  was  long  and  boisterous.  On  the 
twenty-fifth  of  July  the  admiral's  ship  was  separated 
from  the  rest  in  a  hurricane.  For  several  days  she 
was  driven  about  at  the  mercy  of  the  elements,  and  so 
strained  and  racked  that  her  seams  yawned  open,  and 
her  hold  was  half  filled  with  water.  The  storm  sub 
sided,  but  left  her  a  mere  foundering  wreck.  The 
crew  stood  in  the  hold  to  their  waists  in  water,  vainly 
endeavoring  to  bale  her  with  kettles,  buckets,  and  other 
vessels.  The  leaks  rapidly  gained  on  them,  while  their 
strength  was  as  rapidly  declining.  They  lost  all  hope 
of  keeping  the  ship  afloat,  until  they  should  reach  the 
American  coast;  and  wearied  with  fruitless  toil,  de 
termined,  in  their  despair,  to  give  up  all  farther  at 
tempt,  shut  down  the  hatches,  and  abandon  themselves 
to  Providence.  Some,  who  had  spirituous  liquors,  or 
"  comfortable  waters,"  as  the  old  record  quaintly  terms 
them,  brought  them  forth,  and  shared  them  with  their 
comrades,  and  they  all  drank  a  sad  farewell  to  one 
another,  as  men  who  were  soon  to  part  company  in 
this  world. 


THE  BERMUDAS  87 

In  this  moment  of  extremity,  the  worthy  admiral, 
who  kept  sleepless  watch  from  the  high  stern  of  the 
vessel,  gave  the  thrilling  cry  of  "  land !  "  All  rushed 
on  deck,  in  a  frenzy  of  joy,  and  nothing  now  was  to 
be  seen  or  heard  on  board  but  the  transports  of  men 
who  felt  as  if  rescued  from  the  grave.  It  is  true  the 
land  in  sight  would  not,  in  ordinary  circumstances, 
have  inspired  much  self-gratulation.  It  could  be  noth 
ing  else  but  the  group  of  islands  called  after  their 
discoverer,  one  Juan  Bermudas,  a  Spaniard,  but  stig 
matized  among  the  mariners  of  those  days  as  "  the 
islands  of  devils !  "  "  For  the  islands  of  the  Bermudas," 
says  the  old  narrative  of  this  voyage,  "  as  every  man 
knoweth  that  hath  heard  or  read  of  them,  were  never 
inhabited  by  any  Christian  or  heathen  people,  but  were 
ever  esteemed  and  reputed  a  most  prodigious  and  in- 
chanted  place,  affording  nothing  but  gusts,  stormes, 
and  foul  weather,  which  made  every  navigator  and 
mariner  to  avoid  them  as  Scylla  and  Charybdis,  or  as 
they  would  shun  the  Divell  himself."  1 

Sir  George  Somers  and  his  tempest-tossed  comrades, 
however,  hailed  them  with  rapture,  as  if  they  had  been 
a  terrestrial  paradise.  Every  sail  was  spread,  and  every 
exertion  made  to  urge  the  foundering  ship  to  land. 
Before  long  she  struck  upon  a  rock.  Fortunately,  the 
late  stormy  winds  had  subsided,  and  there  was  no  surf. 
A  swelling  wave  lifted  her  from  off  the  rock,  and 
bore  her  to  another ;  and  thus  she  was  borne  on  from 
rock  to  rock,  until  she  remained  wedged  between 
two,  as  firmly  as  if  set  upon  the  stocks.  The  boats 
were  immediately  lowered,  and,  though  the  shore  was 
above  a  mile  distant,  the  whole  crew  were  landed  in 
safety. 

Every  one  had  now  his  task  assigned  him.  Some 
made  all  haste  to  unload  the  ship,  before  she  should 
go  to  pieces ;  some  constructed  wigwams  of  palmetto- 
1  A  Plaine  Description  of  the  Barmudas. 


88  THE  BERMUDAS 

leaves,  and  others  ranged  the  island  in  quest  of  wood 
and  water.  To  their  surprise  and  joy,  they  found  it 
far  different  from  the  desolate  and  frightful  place  they 
had  been  taught  by  seamen's  stories  to  expect.  It  was 
well  wooded  and  fertile;  there  were  birds  of  various 
kinds,  and  herds  of  swine  roaming  about,  the  progeny 
of  a  number  that  had  swum  ashore,  in  former  years, 
from  a  Spanish  wreck.  The  islands  abounded  with 
turtle,  and  great  quantities  of  their  eggs  were  to  be 
found  among  the  rocks.  The  bays  and  inlets  were  full 
of  fish,  so  tame,  that  if  any  one  stepped  into  the  water, 
they  would  throng  around  him.  Sir  George  Somers, 
in  a  little  while,  caught  enough  with  hook  and  line  to 
furnish  a  meal  to  his  whole  ship's  company.  Some  of 
them  were  so  large  that  two  were  as  much  as  a  man 
could  carry.  Craw-fish,  also,  were  taken  in  abun 
dance.  The  air  was  soft  and  salubrious,  and  the  sky 
beautifully  serene.  Waller,  in  his  "  Summer  Islands," 
has  given  us  a  faithful  picture  of  the  climate :  — 

For  the  kind  spring,  (which  but  salutes  us  here,) 
Inhabits  these,  and  courts  them  all  the  year : 
Ripe  fruits  and  blossoms  on  the  same  trees  live ; 
At  once  they  promise,  and  at  once  they  give : 
So  sweet  the  air,  so  moderate  the  clime, 
None  sickly  lives,  or  dies  before  his  time. 
Heaven  sure  has  kept  this  spot  of  earth  uncursed, 
To  show  how  all  things  were  created  first. 

We  may  imagine  the  feelings  of  the  shipwrecked 
mariners  on  finding  themselves  cast  by  stormy  seas  upon 
so  happy  a  coast,  where  abundance  was  to  be  had  with 
out  labor;  where  what  in  other  climes  constituted  the 
costly  luxuries  of  the  rich,  were  within  every  man's 
reach;  and  where  life  promised  to  be  a  mere  holiday. 
Many  of  the  common  sailors,  especially,  declared  they 
desired  no  better  lot  than  to  pass  the  rest  of  their 
lives  on  this  favored  island. 

The  commanders,  however,  were  not  so  ready  to 
console  themselves  with  mere  physical  comforts,  for 


THE  BERMUDAS  89 

the  severance  from  the  enjoyment  of  cultivated  life 
and  all  the  objects  of  honorable  ambition.  Despairing 
of  the  arrival  of  any  chance  ship  on  these  shunned 
and  dreaded  islands,  they  fitted  out  the  long-boat,  mak 
ing  a  deck  of  the  ship's  hatches,  and  having  manned 
her  with  eight  picked  men,  despatched  her,  under  the 
command  of  an  able  and  hardy  mariner,  named  Raven, 
to  proceed  to  Virginia,  and  procure  shipping  to  be  sent 
to  their  relief. 

While  waiting  in  anxious  idleness  for  the  arrival 
of  the  looked-for  aid,  dissensions  arose  between  Sir 
George  Somers  and  Sir  Thomas  Gates,  originating, 
very  probably,  in  jealousy  of  the  lead  which  the 
nautical  experience  and  professional  station  of  the 
admiral  gave  him  in  the  present  emergency.  Each 
commander  of  course  had  his  adherents ;  these  dissen 
sions  ripened  into  a  complete  schism ;  and  this  handful 
of  shipwrecked  men,  thus  thrown  together  on  an  unin 
habited  island,  separated  into  two  parties,  and  lived 
asunder  in  bitter  feud,  as  men  rendered  fickle  by  pros 
perity,  instead  of  being  brought  into  brotherhood  by 
a  common  calamity. 

Weeks  and  months  elapsed  without  bringing  the 
looked-for  aid  from  Virginia,  though  that  colony  was 
within  but  a  few  days'  sail.  Fears  were  now  enter 
tained  that  the  long-boat  had  been  either  swallowed  up 
in  the  sea,  or  wrecked  on  some  savage  coast;  one  or 
other  of  which  most  probably  was  the  case,  as  nothing 
was  ever  heard  of  Raven  and  his  comrades. 

Each  party  now  set  to  work  to  build  a  vessel  for 
itself  out  of  the  cedar  with  which  the  island  abounded. 
The  wreck  of  the  Sea-Vulture  furnished  rigging  and 
various  other  articles;  but  they  had  no  iron  for  bolts 
and  other  fastenings;  and  for  want  of  pitch  and  tar, 
they  payed  the  seams  of  their  vessels  with  lime  and 
turtle's  oil,  which  soon  dried,  and  became  as  hard  as 
stone. 


90  THE  BERMUDAS 

On  the  tenth  of  May,  1610,  they  set  sail,  having 
been  about  nine  months  on  the  island.  They  reached 
Virginia  without  farther  accident,  but  found  the  col 
ony  in  great  distress  for  provisions.  The  account  that 
they  gave  of  the  abundance  that  reigned  in  the  Ber 
mudas,  and  especially  of  the  herds  of  swine  that  roamed 
the  island,  determined  Lord  Delaware,  the  governor 
of  Virginia,  to  send  thither  for  supplies.  Sir  George 
Somers,  with  his  wonted  promptness  and  generosity, 
offered  to  undertake  what  was  still  considered  a  danger 
ous  voyage.  Accordingly  on  the  nineteenth  of  June 
he  set  sail,  in  his  own  cedar  vessel  of  thirty  tons,  ac 
companied  by  another  small  vessel,  commanded  by  Cap 
tain  Argall. 

The  gallant  Somers  was  doomed  again  to  be  tem 
pest-tossed.  His  companion  vessel  was  soon  driven 
back  to  port,  but  he  kept  the  sea;  and,  as  usual,  re 
mained  at  his  post  on  deck  in  all  weathers.  His  voy 
age  was  long  and  boisterous,  and  the  fatigues  and 
exposures  which  he  underwent  were  too  much  for  a 
frame  impaired  by  age  and  by  previous  hardships. 
He  arrived  at  Bermudas  completely  exhausted  and 
broken  down. 

His  nephew,  Captain  Matthew  Somers,  attended  him 
in  his  illness  with  affectionate  assiduity.  Finding  his 
end  approaching,  the  veteran  called  his  men  together, 
and  exhorted  them  to  be  true  to  the  interests  of  Vir 
ginia;  to  procure  provisions,  with  all  possible  de 
spatch,  and  hasten  back  to  the  relief  of  the  colony. 

With  this  dying  charge  he  gave  up  the  ghost,  leav 
ing  his  nephew  and  crew  overwhelmed  with  grief  and 
consternation.  Their  first  thought  was  to  pay  honor 
to  his  remains.  Opening  the  body,  they  took  out  the 
heart  and  entrails,  and  buried  them,  erecting  a  cross 
over  the  grave.  They  then  embalmed  the  body,  and 
set  sail  with  it  for  England;  thus,  while  paying 
empty  honors  to  their  deceased  commander,  neglecting 


THE  BERMUDAS  91 

his  earnest  wish  and  dying  injunction,  that  they 
should  return  with  relief  to  Virginia. 

The  little  bark  arrived  safely  at  Whitechurch  in 
Dorsetshire,  with  its  melancholy  freight.  The  body  of 
the  worthy  Somers  was  interred  with  the  military  hon 
ors  due  to  a  brave  soldier,  and  many  volleys  fired  over 
his  grave.  The  Bermudas  have  since  received  the  name 
of  the  Somer  Islands,  as  a  tribute  to  his  memory. 

The  accounts  given  by  Captain  Matthew  Somers  and 
his  crew  of  the  delightful  climate,  and  the  great  beauty, 
fertility,  and  abundance  of  these  islands,  excited  the 
zeal  of  enthusiasts  and  the  cupidity  of  speculators,  and 
a  plan  was  set  on  foot  to  colonize  them.  The  Vir 
ginia  company  sold  their  right  to  the  islands  to  one 
hundred  and  twenty  of  their  own  members,  who 
erected  themselves  into  a  distinct  corporation,  under 
the  name  of  the  "  Somer  Island  Society  " ;  and  Mr. 
Richard  More  was  sent  out,  in  1612,  as  governor,  with 
sixty  men,  to  found  a  colony;  and  this  leads  me  to 
the  second  branch  of  this  research. 


THE  THREE  KINGS  OF  BERMUDA, 
AND  THEIR  TREASURE  OF  AMBERGRIS 

At  the  time  that  Sir  George  Somers  was  preparing 
to  launch  his  cedar-built  bark,  and  sail  for  Virginia, 
there  were  three  culprits  among  his  men  who  had  been 
guilty  of  capital  offences.  One  of  them  was  shot;  the 
others,  named  Christopher  Carter  and  Edward  Waters, 
escaped.  Waters,  indeed,  made  a  very  narrow  escape, 
for  he  had  actually  been  tied  to  a  tree  to  be  executed, 
but  cut  the  rope  with  a  knife,  which  he  had  concealed 
about  his  person,  and  fled  to  the  woods,  where  he  was 
joined  by  Carter.  These  two  worthies  kept  themselves 
concealed  in  the  secret  parts  of  the  island,  until  the  de- 


92 


THE  BERMUDAS 


parture  of  the  two  vessels.  When  Sir  George  Somers 
revisited  the  island,  in  quest  of  supplies  for  the  Vir 
ginia  colony,  these  culprits  hovered  about  the  landing- 
place,  and  succeeded  in  persuading  another  seaman, 
named  Edward  Chard,  to  join  them,  giving  him  the 
most  seductive  picture  of  the  ease  and  abundance  in 
which  they  revelled. 

When  the  bark  that  bore  Sir  George's  body  to  Eng 
land  had  faded  from  the  watery  horizon,  these  three 
vagabonds  walked  forth  in  their  majesty  and  might, 
the  lords  and  sole  inhabitants  of  these  islands.  For  a 
time  their  little  commonwealth  went  on  prosperously 
and  happily.  They  built  a  house,  sowed  corn,  and  the 
seeds  of  various  fruits;  and  having  plenty  of  hogs, 
wild  fowl,  and  fish  of  all  kinds,  with  turtle  in  abun 
dance,  carried  on  their  tripartite  sovereignty  with 
great  harmony  and  much  feasting.  All  kingdoms, 
however,  are  doomed  to  revolution,  convulsion,  or 
decay;  and  so  it  fared  with  the  empire  of  the  three 
kings  of  Bermuda,  albeit  they  were  monarchs  without 
subjects.  In  an  evil  hour,  in  their  search  after  turtle, 
among  the  fissures  of  the  rocks,  they  came  upon  a 
great  treasure  of  ambergris,  which  had  been  cast  on 
shore  by  the  ocean.  Besides  a  number  of  pieces  of 
smaller  dimensions,  there  was  one  great  mass,  the 
largest  that  had  ever  been  known,  weighing  eighty 
pounds,  and  which  of  itself,  according  to  the  market 
value  of  ambergris  in  those  days,  was  worth  about 
nine  or  ten  thousand  pounds. 

From  that  moment  the  happiness  and  harmony  of 
the  three  kings  of  Bermuda  were  gone  forever.  While 
poor  devils,  with  nothing  to  share  but  the  common 
blessings  of  the  island,  which  administered  to  present 
enjoyment,  but  had  nothing  of  convertible  value,  they 
were  loving  and  united;  but  here  was  actual  wealth, 
which  would  make  them  rich  men  whenever  they  could 
transport  it  to  market. 


THE  BERMUDAS  93 

Adieu  the  delights  of  the  island !  They  now  became 
flat  and  insipid.  Each  pictured  to  himself  the  conse 
quence  he  might  now  aspire  to,  in  civilized  life,  could 
he  once  get  there  with  this  mass  of  ambergris.  No 
longer  a  poor  Jack  Tar,  frolicking  in  the  low  taverns 
of  Wapping,  he  might  roll  through  London  in  his 
coach,  and  perchance  arrive,  like  Whittington,  at  the 
dignity  of  Lord  Mayor. 

With  riches  came  envy  and  covetousness.  Each 
was  now  for  assuming  the  supreme  power,  and  getting 
the  monopoly  of  the  ambergris.  A  civil  war  at  length 
broke  out:  Chard  and  Waters  defied  each  other  to 
mortal  combat,  and  the  kingdom  of  the  Bermudas 
was  on  the  point  of  being  deluged  with  royal  blood. 
Fortunately,  Carter  took  no  part  in  the  bloody  feud. 
Ambition  might  have  made  him  view  it  with  secret 
exultation ;  for  if  either  or  both  of  his  brother  poten 
tates  were  slain  in  the  conflict,  he  would  be  a  gainer  in 
purse  and  ambergris.  But  he  dreaded  to  be  left  alone 
in  this  uninhabited  island,  and  to  find  himself  the 
monarch  of  a  solitude;  so  he  secretly  purloined  and 
hid  the  weapons  of  the  belligerent  rivals,  who,  having 
no  means  of  carrying  on  the  war,  gradually  cooled 
down  into  a  sullen  armistice. 

The  arrival  of  Governor  More,  with  an  overpower 
ing  force  of  sixty  men,  put  an  end  to  the  empire.  He 
took  possession  of  the  kingdom,  in  the  name  of  the 
Somer  Island  Company,  and  forthwith  proceeded  to 
make  a  settlement.  The  three  kings  tacitly  relinquished 
their  sway,  but  stood  up  stoutly  for  their  treasure.  It 
was  determined,  however,  that  they  had  been  fitted  out 
at  the  expense,  and  employed  in  the  service,  of  the 
Virginia  Company ;  that  they  had  found  the  ambergris 
while  in  the  service  of  that  company,  and  on  that 
company's  land ;  that  the  ambergris  therefore  belonged 
to  that  company,  or  rather  to  the  Somer  Island  Com 
pany,  in  consequence  of  their  recent  purchase  of  the 


94  THE  BERMUDAS 

island,  and  all  their  appurtenances.  Having  thus 
legally  established  their  right,  and  being,  moreover, 
able  to  back  it  by  might,  the  company  laid  the  lion's 
paw  upon  the  spoil;  and  nothing  more  remains  on 
historic  record  of  the  Three  Kings  of  Bermuda  and 
their  treasure  of  ambergris. 

The  reader  will  now  determine  whether  I  am  more 
extravagant  than  most  of  the- commentators  on  Shak- 
speare,  in  my  surmise  that  the  story  of  Sir  George 
Somer's  shipwreck,  and  the  subsequent  occurrences 
that  took  place  on  the  uninhabited  island,  may  have 
furnished  the  bard  with  some  of  the  elements  of  his 
drama  of  the  "  Tempest."  The  tidings  of  the  ship 
wreck,  and  of  the  incidents  connected  with  it,  reached 
England  not  long  before  the  production  of  this  drama, 
and  made  a  great  sensation  there.  A  narrative  of  the 
whole  matter,  from  which  most  of  the  foregoing  par 
ticulars  are  extracted,  was  published  at  the  time  in 
London,  in  a  pamphlet  form,  and  could  not  fail  to  be 
eagerly  perused  by  Shakspeare,  and  to  make  a  vivid 
impression  on  his  fancy.  His  expression,  in  the 
"  Tempest,"  of  "  the  still  vext  Bermoothes,"  accords 
exactly  with  the  storm-beaten  character  of  those 
islands.  The  enchantments,  too,  with  which  he  has 
clothed  the  island  of  Prospero,  may  they  not  be  traced 
to  the  wild  and  superstitious  notions  entertained  about 
the  Bermudas  ?  I  have  already  cited  two  passages  from 
a  pamphlet  published  at  the  time,  showing  that  they 
were  esteemed  "  a  most  prodigious  and  inchanted 
place,"  and  the  "  habitation  of  divells  " ;  and  another 
pamphlet,  published  shortly  afterward,  observes : 
"  And  whereas  it  is  reported  that  this  land  of  the  Bar- 
mudas,  with  the  islands  about,  (which  are  many,  at 
least  an  hundred,)  are  inchanted,  and  kept  with  evil 
and  wicked  spirits,  it  is  a  most  idle  false  report."  x 
1  Newes  from  the  Barmudas :  1612. 


THE  BERMUDAS  95 

The  description,  too,  given  in  the  same  pamphlets 
of  the  real  beauty  and  fertility  of  the  Bermudas,  and 
of  their  serene  and  happy  climate,  so  opposite  to  the 
dangerous  and  inhospitable  character  with  which  they 
had  been  stigmatized,  accords  with  the  eulogium  of 
Sebastian  on  the  island  of  Prospero :  — 

Though  this  island  seem  to  be  desert,  uninhabitable,  and  almost 
inaccessible,  it  must  needs  be  of  subtle,  tender,  and  delicate  tem 
perance.  The  air  breathes  upon  us  here  most  sweetly.  Here  is 
every  thing  advantageous  to  life.  How  lush  and  lusty  the  grass 
looks  !  how  green ! 

I  think  too,  in  the  exulting  consciousness  of  ease, 
security,  and  abundance,  felt  by  the  late  tempest-tossed 
mariners,  while  revelling  in  the  plenteousness  of  the 
island,  and  their  inclination  to  remain  there,  released 
from  the  labors,  the  cares,  and  the  artificial  restraints 
of  civilized  life,  I  can  see  something  of  the  golden  com 
monwealth  of  honest  Gonzalo :  — 

Had  I  a  plantation  of  this  isle,  my  lord, 
And  were  the  king  of  it,  what  would  I  do? 
I'  the  commonwealth  I  would  by  contraries 
Execute  all  things :   for  no  kind  of  traffic 
Would  I  admit ;  no  name  of  magistrate. 
Letters  should  not  be  known ;   riches,  poverty, 
And  use  of  service,  none ;  contract,  succession, 
Bourn,  bound  of  land,  tilth,  vineyard,  none : 
No  use  of  metal,  corn,  or  wine,  or  oil : 
No  occupatioh ;  all  men  idle,  all. 

All  things  in  common,  nature  should  produce, 
Without  sweat  or  endeavor :  Treason,  felony, 
Sword,  pike,  knife,  gun,  or  need  of  any  engine, 
Would  I  not  have ;  but  nature  should  bring  forth, 
Of  its  own  kind  all  foizon,  all  abundance, 
To  feed  my  innocent  people. 

But  above  all,  in  the  three  fugitive  vagabonds  who 
remained  in  possession  of  the  island  of  Bermuda,  on 
the  departure  of  their  comrades,  and  in  their  squabbles 
about  supremacy,  on  the  finding  of  their  treasure,  I 


96  THE  WIDOW'S  ORDEAL 

see  typified  Sebastian,  Trinculo,  and  their  worthy  com 
panion  Caliban :  — 

Trinculo,  the  king  and  all  our  company  being  drowned,  we  will 
inherit  here. 

Monster,  I  will  kill  this  man ;  his  daughter  and  I  will  be  king 
and  queen,  (save  our  graces!)  and  Trinculo  and  thyself  shall  be 
viceroys. 

I  do  not  mean  to  hold  up  the  incidents  and  characters 
in  the  narrative  and  in  the  play  as  parallel,  or  as  being 
strikingly  similar:  neither  would  I  insinuate  that  the 
narrative  suggested  the  play;  I  would  only  suppose 
that  Shakspeare,  being  occupied  about  that  time  on 
the  drama  of  the  "  Tempest,"  the  main  story  of  which, 
I  believe,  is  of  Italian  origin,  had  many  of  the  fanciful 
ideas  of  it  suggested  to  his  mind  by  the  shipwreck  of 
Sir  George  Somers  on  the  "  still  vext  Bermoothes," 
and  by  the  popular  superstitions  connected  with  these 
islands,  and  suddenly  put  in  circulation  by  that  event. 


THE  WIDOW'S   ORDEAL; 

OR,  A  JUDICIAL  TRIAL   BY   COMBAT 

THE  world  is  daily  growing  older  and  wiser.  Its  in 
stitutions  vary  with  its  years,  and  mark  its  growing 
wisdom;  and  none  more  so  than  its  modes  of  investi 
gating  truth,  and  ascertaining  guilt  or  innocence.  In 
its  nonage,  when  man  was  yet  a  fallible  being,  and 
doubted  the  accuracy  of  his  own  intellect,  appeals  were 
made  to  Heaven  in  dark  and  doubtful  cases  of  atro 
cious  accusation. 

The  accused  was  required  to  plunge  his  hand  in 
boiling  oil,  or  to  walk  across  red-hot  ploughshares, 
or  to  maintain  his  innocence  in  armed  fight  and  listed 
field,  in  person  or  by  champion.  If  he  passed  these 


THE  WIDOW'S  ORDEAL  97 

ordeals  unscathed,  he  stood  acquitted,  and  the  result 
was  regarded  as  a  verdict  from  on  high. 

It  is  somewhat  remarkable  that,  in  the  gallant  age 
of  chivalry,  the  gentler  sex  should  have  been  most 
frequently  the  subjects  of  these  rude  trials  and  peril 
ous  ordeals ;  and  that,  too,  when  assailed  in  their  most 
delicate  and  vulnerable  part,  —  their  honor. 

In  the  present  very  old  and  enlightened  age  of  the 
world  when  the  human  intellect  is  perfectly  competent 
to  the  management  of  its  own  concerns,  and  needs  no 
special  interposition  of  Heaven  in  its  affairs,  the  trial 
by  jury  has  superseded  these  superhuman  ordeals ;  and 
the  unanimity  of  twelve  discordant  minds  is  necessary 
to  constitute  a  verdict.  Such  a  unanimity  would^  at 
first  sight,  appear  also  to  require  a  miracle  from 
Heaven;  but  it  is  produced  by  a  simple  device  of 
human  ingenuity.  The  twelve  jurors  are  locked  up  in 
their  box,  there  to  fast  until  abstinence  shall  have  so 
clarified  their  intellects  that  the  whole  jarring  panel 
can  discern  the  truth,  and  concur  in  a  unanimous  de 
cision.  One  point  is  certain,  that  truth  is  one  and  is 
immutable;  until  the  jurors  all  agree,  they  cannot  all 
be  right. 

It  is  not  our  intention,  however,  to  discuss  this  great 
judicial  point,  or  to  question  the  avowed  superiority 
of  the  mode  of  investigating  truth  adopted  in  this  anti 
quated  and  very  sagacious  era.  It  is  our  object  merely 
to  exhibit  to  the  curious  reader  one  of  the  most  memo 
rable  cases  of  judicial  combat  we  find  in  the  annals  of 
Spain.  It  occurred  at  the  bright  commencement  of 
the  reign,  and  in  the  youthful,  and,  as  yet,  glorious 
days  of  Roderick  the  Goth ;  who  subsequently  tar 
nished  his  fame  at  home  by  his  misdeeds,  and,  finally, 
lost  his  kingdom  and  his  life  on  the  banks  of  the 
Guadalete,  in  that  disastrous  battle  which  gave  up 
Spain  a  conquest  to  the  Moors.  The  following  is  the 
story :  — 

7 


98  THE  WIDOW'S  ORDEAL 

There  was  once  upon  a  time  a  certain  Duke  of  Lor 
raine,  who  was  acknowledged  throughout  his  domains 
to  be  one  of  the  wisest  princes  that  ever  lived.  In  fact 
there  was  no  one  measure  adopted  by  him  that  did  not 
astonish  his  privy  councillors  and  gentlemen  in  atten 
dance;  and  he  said  such  witty  things,  and  made  such 
sensible  speeches,  that  the  jaws  of  his  high  chamberlain 
were  wellnigh  dislocated  from  laughing  with  delight 
at  one,  and  gaping  with  wonder  at  the  other. 

This  very  witty  and  exceedingly  wise  potentate  lived 
for  half  a  century  in  single  blessedness;  at  length  his 
courtiers  began  to  think  it  a  great  pity  so  wise  and 
wealthy  a  prince  should  not  have  a  child  after  his  own 
likeness,  to  inherit  his  talents  and  domains;  so  they 
urged  him  most  respectfully  to  marry,  for  the  good 
of  his  estate  and  the  welfare  of  his  subjects. 

He  turned  their  advice  over  in  his  mind  some  four 
or  five  years,  and  then  sent  forth  emissaries  to  summon 
to  his  court  all  the  beautiful  maidens  in  the  land,  who 
were  ambitious  of  sharing  a  ducal  crown.  The  court 
was  soon  crowded  with  beauties  of  all  styles  and  com 
plexions,  from  among  whom  he  chose  one  in  the  earli 
est  budding  of  her  charms,  and  acknowledged  by  all 
the  gentlemen  to  be  unparalleled  for  grace  and  loveli 
ness.  The  courtiers  extolled  the  duke  to  the  skies 
for  making  such  a  choice,  and  considered  it  another 
proof  of  his  great  wisdom.  "  The  duke,"  said  they, 
"  is  waxing  a  little  too  old ;  the  damsel,  on  the  other 
hand,  is  a  little  too  young;  if  one  is  lacking  in  years, 
the  other  has  a  superabundance;  thus  a  want  on  one 
side  is  balanced  by  an  excess  on  the  other,  and  the  re 
sult  is  a  well-assorted  marriage." 

The  duke,  as  is  often  the  case  with  wise  men  who 
marry  rather  late,  and  take  damsels  rather  youthful 
to  their  bosoms,  became  dotingly  fond  of  his  wife, 
and  very  properly  indulged  her  in  all  things.  He  was, 
consequently,  cried  up  by  his  subjects  in  general,  and 


THE  WIDOW'S  ORDEAL  99 

by  the  ladies  in  particular,  as  a  pattern  for  husbands; 
and,  in  the  end,  from  the  wonderful  docility  with 
which  he  submitted  to  be  reined  and  checked,  ac 
quired  the  amiable  and  enviable  appellation  of  Duke 
Philibert  the  wife-ridden. 

There  was  only  one  thing  that  disturbed  the  conjugal 
felicity  of  this  paragon  of  husbands:  though  a  con 
siderable  time  elapsed  after  his  marriage,  there  was 
still  no  prospect  of  an  heir.  The  good  duke  left  no 
means  untried  to  propitiate  Heaven.  He  made  vows 
and  pilgrimages,  he  fasted  and  he  prayed,  but  all  to 
no  purpose.  The  courtiers  were  all  astonished  at  the 
circumstance.  They  could  not  account  for  it.  While 
the  meanest  peasant  in  the  country  had  sturdy  brats 
by  dozens,  without  putting  up  a  prayer,  the  duke  wore 
himself  to  skin  and  bone  with  penances  and  fastings, 
yet  seemed  farther  off  from  his  object  than  ever. 

At  length  the  worthy  prince  fell  dangerously  ill,  and 
felt  his  end  approaching.  He  looked  sorrowfully  and 
dubiously  upon  his  young  and  tender  spouse,  who  hung 
over  him  with  tears  and  sobbings.  "  Alas !  "  said  he, 
"  tears  are  soon  dried  from  youthful  eyes,  and  sorrow 
lies  lightly  on  a  youthful  heart.  In  a  little  while  thou 
wilt  forget  in  the  arms  of  another  husband  him  who 
has  loved  thee  so  tenderly." 

"Never!  never!"  cried  the  duchess.  "Never  will 
I  cleave  to  another!  Alas,  that  my  lord  should  think 
me  capable  of  such  inconstancy ! " 

The  worthy  and  wife-ridden  duke  was  soothed  by 
her  assurances ;  for  he  could  not  brook  the  thought  of 
giving  her  up  even  after  he  should  be  dead.  Still  he 
wished  to  have  some  pledge  of  her  enduring  constancy. 

"  Far  be  it  from  me,  my  dearest  wife,"  said  he, 
"  to  control  thee  through  a  long  life.  A  year  and  a 
day  of  strict  fidelity  will  appease  my  troubled  spirit. 
Promise  to  remain  faithful  to  my  memory  for  a  year 
and  a  day,  and  I  will  die  in  peace." 


ioo  THE  WIDOW'S  ORDEAL 

The  duchess  made  a  solemn  vow  to  that  effect,  but 
the  uxorious  feelings  of  the  duke  were  not  yet  satis 
fied.  "  Safe  bind,  safe  find,"  thought  he ;  so  he  made 
a  will,  bequeathing  to  her  all  his  domains,  on  condition 
of  her  remaining  true  to  him  for  a  year  and  a  day  after 
his  decease;  but,  should  it  appear  that,  within  that 
time,  she  had  in  any  wise  lapsed  from  her  fidelity,  the 
inheritance  should  go  to  his  nephew,  the  lord  of  a 
neighboring  territory. 

Having  made  his  will,  the  good  duke  died  and  was 
buried.  Scarcely  was  he  in  his  tomb,  when  his  nephew 
came  to  take  possession,  thinking,  as  his  uncle  had  died 
without  issue,  the  domains  would  be  devised  to  him 
of  course.  He  was  in  a  furious  passion  when  the  will 
was  produced,  and  the  young  widow  declared  inheritor 
of  the  dukedom.  As  he  was  a  violent,  high-handed 
man,  and  one  of  the  sturdiest  knights  in  the  land,  fears 
were  entertained  that  he  might  attempt  to  seize  on  the 
territories  by  force.  He  had,  however,  two  bachelor 
uncles  for  bosom  counsellors,  —  swaggering,  rake 
helly  old  cavaliers,  who,  having  led  loose  and  riotous 
lives,  prided  themselves  upon  knowing  the  world,  and 
being  deeply  experienced  in  human  nature.  "  Prithee, 
man,  be  of  good  cheer,"  said  they ;  "  the  duchess  is  a 
young  and  buxom  widow.  She  has  just  buried  our 
brother,  who,  God  rest  his  soul!  was  somewhat  too 
much  given  to  praying  and  fasting,  and  kept  his  pretty 
wife  always  tied  to  his  girdle.  She  is  now  like  a  bird 
from  a  cage.  Think  you  she  will  keep  her  vow? 
Pooh,  pooh  —  impossible !  Take  our  words  for  it  — 
we  know  mankind,  and,  above  all,  womankind.  She 
cannot  hold  out  for  such  a  length  of  time;  it  is  not 
in  womanhood,  —  it  is  not  in  widowhood ;  we  know 
it,  and  that 's  enough.  Keep  a  sharp  lookout  upon  the 
widow,  therefore,  and  within  the  twelvemonth  you  will 
catch  her  tripping,  and  then  the  dukedom  is  your  own." 

The  nephew  was  pleased  with  this  counsel,  and  im- 


THE  WIDOW'S  ORDEAL  101 

mediately  placed  spies  round  the  duchess,  and  bribed 
several  of  her  servants  to  keep  watch  upon  her,  so 
that  she  could  not  take  a  single  step,  even  from  one 
apartment  of  her  palace  to  another,  without  being  ob 
served.  Never  was  young  and  beautiful  widow  ex 
posed  to  so  terrible  an  ordeal. 

The  duchess  was  aware  of  the  watch  thus  kept  upon 
her.  Though  confident  of  her  own  rectitude,  she  knew 
that  it  is  not  enough  for  a  woman  to  be  virtuous,  — 
she  must  be  above  the  reach  of  slander.  For  the 
whole  term  of  her  probation,  therefore,  she  proclaimed 
a  strict  non-intercourse  with  the  other  sex.  She 
had  females  for  cabinet  ministers  and  chamberlains, 
through  whom  she  transacted  all  her  public  and  private 
concerns;  and  it  is  said  that  never  were  the  affairs  of 
the  dukedom  so  adroitly  administered. 

All  males  were  rigorously  excluded  from  the  palace ; 
she  never  went  out  of  its  precincts,  and  whenever  she 
moved  about  its  courts  and  gardens,  she  surrounded 
herself  with  a  body-guard  of  young  maids  of  honor, 
commanded  by  dames  renowned  for  discretion.  She 
slept  in  a  bed  without  curtains,  placed  in  the  centre  of 
a  room  illuminated  by  innumerable  wax  tapers.  Four 
ancient  spinsters,  virtuous  as  Virginia,  perfect  dragons 
of  watchfulness,  who  only  slept  during  the  daytime, 
kept  vigils  throughout  the  night,  seated  in  the  four 
corners  of  the  room  on  stools  without  backs  or  arms, 
and  with  seats  cut  in  checkers  of  the  hardest  wood,  to 
keep  them  from  dozing. 

Thus  wisely  and  wearily  did  the  young  duchess  con 
duct  herself  for  twelve  long  months,  and  slander  al 
most  bit  her  tongue  off  in  despair,  at  finding  no  room 
even  for  a  surmise.  Never  was  ordeal  more  burden 
some,  or  more  enduringly  sustained. 

The  year  passed  away.  The  last,  odd  day  arrived, 
and  a  long,  long  day  it  was.  It  was  the  twenty-first  of 
June,  the  longest  day  in  the  year.  It  seemed  as  if  it 


102  THE  WIDOW'S  ORDEAL 

would  never  come  to  an  end.  A  thousand  times  did 
the  duchess  and  her  ladies  watch  the  sun  from  the 
windows  of  the  palace,  as  he  slowly  climbed  the  vault 
of  heaven,  and  seemed  still  more  slowly  to  roll  down. 
They  could  not  help  expressing  their  wonder,  now 
and  then,  why  the  duke  should  have  tagged  this  super 
numerary  day  to  the  end  of  the  year,  as  if  three  hun 
dred  and  sixty-five  days  were  not  sufficient  to  try  and 
task  the  fidelity  of  any  woman.  It  is  the  last  grain  that 
turns  the  scale  —  the  last  drop  that  overflows  the  gob 
let  —  and  the  last  moment  of  delay  that  exhausts  the 
patience.  By  the  time  the  sun  sank  below  the  horizon, 
the  duchess  was  in  a  fidget  that  passed  all  bounds,  and, 
though  several  hours  were  yet  to  pass  before  the  day 
regularly  expired,  she  could  not  have  remained  those 
hours  in  durance  to  gain  a  royal  crown,  much  less  a 
ducal  coronet.  So  she  gave  orders,  and  her  palfrey, 
magnificently  caparisoned,  was  brought  into  the  court 
yard  of  the  castle,  with  palfreys  for  all  her  ladies  in 
attendance.  In  this  way  she  sallied  forth,  just  as  the 
sun  had  gone  down.  It  was  a  mission  of  piety,  —  a 
pilgrim  cavalcade  to  a  convent  at  the  foot  of  a  neigh 
boring  mountain,  —  to  return  thanks  to  the  blessed 
Virgin,  for  having  sustained  her  through  this  fearful 
ordeal. 

The  orisons  performed,  the  duchess  and  her  ladies 
returned,  ambling  gently  along  the  border  of  a  forest. 
It  was  about  that  mellow  hour  of  twilight  when  night 
and  day  are  mingled,  and  all  objects  are  indistinct. 
Suddenly  some  monstrous  animal  sprang  from  out  a 
thicket,  with  fearful  howlings.  The  female  body 
guard  was  thrown  into  confusion,  and  fled  different 
ways.  It  was  some  time  before  they  recovered  from 
their  panic,  and  gathered  once  more  together;  but 
the  duchess  was  not  to  be  found.  The  greatest  anxiety 
was  felt  for  her  safety.  The  hazy  mist  of  twilight  had 
prevented  their  distinguishing  perfectly  the  animal 


THE  WIDOW'S  ORDEAL  103 

which  had  affrighted  them.  Some  thought  it  a  wolf, 
others  a  bear,  others  a  wild  man  of  the  woods.  For 
upwards  of  an  hour  did  they  beleaguer  the  forest,  with 
out  daring  to  venture  in,  and  were  on  the  point  of 
giving  up  the  duchess  as  torn  to  pieces  and  devoured, 
when,  to  their  great  joy,  they  beheld  her  advancing  in 
the  gloom,  supported  by  a  stately  cavalier. 

He  was  a  stranger  knight,  whom  nobody  knew.  It 
was  impossible  to  distinguish  his  countenance  in  the 
dark;  but  all  the  ladies  agreed  that  he  was  of  noble 
presence  and  captivating  address.  He  had  rescued 
the  duchess  from  the  very  fangs  of  the  monster,  which, 
he  assured  the  ladies,  was  neither  a  wolf,  nor  a  bear, 
nor  yet  a  wild  man  of  the  woods,  but  a  veritable  fiery 
dragon,  a  species  of  monster  peculiarly  hostile  to  beau 
tiful  females  in  the  days  of  chivalry,  and  which  all 
the  efforts  of  knight-errantry  had  not  been  able  to 
extirpate. 

The  ladies  crossed  themselves  when  they  heard  of 
the  danger  from  which  they  had  escaped,  and  could 
not  enough  admire  the  gallantry  of  the  cavalier.  The 
duchess  would  fain  have  prevailed  on  her  deliverer  to 
accompany  her  to  her  court;  but  he  had  no  time  to 
spare,  being  a  knight  errant  who  had  many  adventures 
on  hand,  and  many  distressed  damsels  and  afflicted 
widows  to  rescue  and  relieve  in  various  parts  of  the 
country.  Taking  a  respectful  leave,  therefore,  he  pur 
sued  his  wayfaring,  and  the  duchess  and  her  train  re 
turned  to  the  palace.  Throughout  the  whole  way,  the 
ladies  were  unwearied  in  chanting  the  praises  of  the 
stranger  knight;  nay,  many  of  them  would  willingly 
have  incurred  the  danger  of  the  dragon  to  have  en 
joyed  the  happy  deliverance  of  the  duchess.  As  to 
the  latter,  she  rode  pensively  along,  but  said  nothing. 

No  sooner  was  the  adventure  of  the  wood  made 
public,  than  a  whirlwind  was  raised  about  the  ears  of 
the  beautiful  duchess.  The  blustering  nephew  of  the 


104 

deceased  duke  went  about,  armed  to  the  teeth,  with  a 
swaggering  uncle  at  each  shoulder,  ready  to  back  him, 
and  swore  the  duchess  had  forfeited  her  domain.  It 
was  in  vain  that  she  called  all  the  saints,  and  angels, 
and  her  ladies  in  attendance  into  the  bargain,  to  wit 
ness  that  she  had  passed  a  year  and  a  day  of  immacu 
late  fidelity.  One  fatal  hour  remained  to  be  accounted 
for;  and  into  the  space  of  one  little  hour  sins  enough 
may  be  conjured  up  by  evil  tongues  to  blast  the  fame 
of  a  whole  life  of  virtue. 

The  two  graceless  uncles,  who  had  seen  the  world, 
were  ever  ready  to  bolster  the  matter  through,  and  as 
they  were  brawny,  broad-shouldered  warriors,  and  vet 
erans  in  brawl  as  well  as  debauch,  they  had  great  sway 
with  the  multitude.  If  any  one  pretended  to  assert  the 
innocence  of  the  duchess,  they  interrupted  him  with  a 
loud  ha!  ha!  of  derision.  "A  pretty  story,  truly," 
would  they  cry,  "  about  a  wolf  and  a  dragon,  and  a 
young  widow  rescued  in  the  dark  by  a  sturdy  varlet, 
who  dares  not  show  his  face  in  the  daylight.  You  may 
tell  that  to  those  who  do  not  know  human  nature ;  for 
our  parts,  we  know  the  sex,  and  that 's  enough." 

If,  however,  the  other  repeated  his  assertion,  they 
would  suddenly  knit  their  brows,  swell,  look  big,  and 
put  their  hands  upon  their  swords.  As  few  people  like 
to  fight  in  a  cause  that  does  not  touch  their  own  inter 
ests,  the  nephew  and  the  uncles  were  suffered  to  have 
their  way,  and  swagger  uncontradicted. 

The  matter  was  at  length  referred  to  a  tribunal 
composed  of  all  the  dignitaries  of  the  dukedom,  and 
many  and  repeated  consultations  were  held.  The  char 
acter  of  the  duchess  throughout  the  year  was  as  bright 
and  spotless  as  the  moon  in  a  cloudless  night;  one 
fatal  hour  of  darkness  alone  intervened  to  eclipse  its 
brightness.  Finding  human  sagacity  incapable  of  dis 
pelling  the  mystery,  it  was  determined  to  leave  the 
question  to  Heaven ;  or,  in  other  words,  to  decide  it  by 


THE  WIDOW'S  ORDEAL  105 

the  ordeal  of  the  sword,  —  a  sage  tribunal  in  the  age 
of  chivalry.  The  nephew  and  two  bully  uncles  were 
to  maintain  their  accusation  in  listed  combat,  and  six 
months  were  allowed  to  the  duchess  to  provide  herself 
with  three  champions,  to  meet  them  in  the  field.  Should 
she  fail  in  this,  or  should  her  champions  be  vanquished, 
her  honor  would  be  considered  as  attainted,  her  fidelity 
as  forfeit,  and  her  dukedom  would  go  to  the  nephew 
as  a  matter  of  right. 

With  this  determination  the  duchess  was  fain  to 
comply.  Proclamations  were  accordingly  made,  and 
heralds  sent  to  various  parts ;  but  day  after  day,  week 
after  week,  and  month  after  month  elapsed,  without 
any  champion  appearing  to  assert  her  loyalty  through 
out  that  darksome  hour.  The  fair  widow  was  reduced 
to  despair,  when  tidings  reached  her  of  grand  tourna 
ments  to  be  held  at  Toledo,  in  celebration  of  the  nup 
tials  of  Don  Roderick,  the  last  of  the  Gothic  kings, 
with  the  Morisco  princess  Exilona.  As  a  last  resort, 
the  duchess  repaired  to  the  Spanish  court,  to  implore 
the  gallantry  of  its  assembled  chivalry. 

The  ancient  city  of  Toledo  was  a  scene  of  gorgeous 
revelry  on  the  event  of  the  royal  nuptials.  The  youth 
ful  king,  brave,  ardent,  and  magnificent,  and  his  lovely 
bride,  beaming  with  all  the  radiant  beauty  of  the  East, 
were  hailed  with  shouts  and  acclamations  whenever 
they  appeared.  Their  nobles  vied  with  each  other  in 
the  luxury  of  their  attire,  their  prancing  steeds,  and 
splendid  retinues ;  and  the  haughty  dames  of  the  court 
appeared  in  a  blaze  of  jewels. 

In  the  midst  of  all  this  pageantry,  the  beautiful  but 
afflicted  Duchess  of  Lorraine  made  her  approach  to  the 
throne.  She  was  dressed  in  black,  and  closely  veiled; 
four  duennas  of  the  most  staid  and  severe  aspect,  and 
six  beautiful  demoiselles,  formed  her  female  attend 
ants.  She  was  guarded  by  several  very  ancient,  with 
ered,  and  gray-headed  cavaliers;  and  her  train  was 


106  THE  WIDOW'S  ORDEAL 

borne  by  one  of  the  most  deformed  and  diminutive 
dwarfs  in  existence. 

Advancing  to  the  foot  of  the  throne,  she  knelt  down, 
and,  throwing  up  her  veil,  revealed  a  countenance  so 
beautiful  that  half  the  courtiers  present  were  ready  to 
renounce  wives  and  mistresses,  and  devote  themselves 
to  her  service;  but  when  she  made  known  that  she 
came  in  quest  of  champions  to  defend  her  fame,  every 
cavalier  pressed  forward  to  offer  his  arm  and  sword, 
without  inquiring  into  the  merits  of  the  case;  for  it 
seemed  clear  that  so  beauteous  a  lady  could  have  done 
nothing  but  what  was  right ;  and  that,  at  any  rate,  she 
ought  to  be  championed  in  following  the  bent  of  her 
humors,  whether  right  or  wrong. 

Encouraged  by  such  gallant  zeal,  the  duchess  suf 
fered  herself  to  be  raised  from  the  ground,  and  related 
the  whole  story  of  her  distress.  When  she  concluded, 
the  king  remained  for  some  time  silent,  charmed  by 
the  music  of  her  voice.  At  length,  "  As  I  hope  for 
salvation,  most  beautiful  duchess,"  said  he,  "  were  I 
not  a  sovereign  king,  and  bound  in  duty  to  my  king 
dom,  I  myself  would  put  lance  in  rest  to  vindicate  your 
cause ;  as  it  is,  I  here  give  full  permission  to  my  knights, 
and  promise  lists  and  a  fair  field,  and  that  the  contest 
shall  take  place  before  the  walls  of  Toledo,  in  presence 
of  my  assembled  court." 

As  soon  as  the  pleasure  of  the  king  was  known,  there 
was  a  strife  among  the  cavaliers  present  for  the  honor 
of  the  contest.  It  was  decided  by  lot,  and  the  successful 
candidates  were  objects  of  great  envy,  for  every  one 
was  ambitious  of  finding  favor  in  the  eyes  of  the  beau 
tiful  widow. 

Missives  were  sent  summoning  the  nephew  and  his 
two  uncles  to  Toledo,  to  maintain  their  accusation,  and 
a  day  was  appointed  for  the  combat.  When  the  day 
arrived  all  Toledo  was  in  commotion  at  an  early  hour. 
The  lists  had  been  prepared  in  the  usual  place,  just 


THE  WIDOW'S  ORDEAL  107 

without  the  walls,  at  the  foot  of  the  rugged  rocks  on 
which  the  city  is  built,  and  on  that  beautiful  meadow 
along  the  Tagus,  known  by  the  name  of  the  King's 
Garden.  The  populace  had  already  assembled,  each  one 
eager  to  secure  a  favorable  place;  the  balconies  were 
filled  with  the  ladies  of  the  court,  clad  in  their  richest 
attire,  and  bands  of  youthful  knights,  splendidly  armed 
and  decorated  with  their  ladies'  devices,  were  man 
aging  their  superbly  caparisoned  steeds  about  the  field. 
The  king  at  length  came  forth  in  state,  accompanied 
by  the  queen  Exilona.  They  took  their  seats  in  a 
raised  balcony,  under  a  canopy  of  rich  damask;  and, 
at  sight  of  them,  the  people  rent  the  air  with 
acclamations. 

The  nephew  and  his  uncles  now  rode  into  the  field, 
armed  cap-a-pie,  and  followed  by  a  train  of  cavaliers 
of  their  own  roystering  cast,  —  great  swearers  and 
carousers,  arrant  swashbucklers,  with  clanking  armor 
and  jingling  spurs.  When  the  people  of  Toledo  beheld 
the  vaunting  and  discourteous  appearance  of  these 
knights,  they  were  more  anxious  than  ever  for  the 
success  of  the  gentle  duchess;  but,  at  the  same  time, 
the  sturdy  and  stalwart  frames  of  these  warriors 
showed  that  whoever  won  the  victory  from  them  must 
do  it  at  the  cost  of  many  a  bitter  blow. 

As  the  nephew  and  his  riotous  crew  rode  in  at  one 
side  of  the  field,  the  fair  widow  appeared  at  the  other, 
with  her  suite  of  grave  gray-headed  courtiers,  her 
ancient  duennas  and  dainty  demoiselles,  and  the  little 
dwarf  toiling  along  under  the  weight  of  her  train. 
Every  one  made  way  for  her  as  she  passed,  and  blessed 
her  beautiful  face,  and  prayed  for  success  to  her  cause. 
She  took  her  seat  in  a  lower  balcony,  not  far  from  the 
sovereigns ;  and  her  pale  face,  set  off  by  her  mourning 
weeds,  was  as  the  moon,  shining  forth  from  among  the 
clouds  of  night. 

The  trumpets  sounded  for  the  combat.     The  war- 


io8  THE  WIDOW'S  ORDEAL 

riors  were  just  entering  the  lists,  when  a  stranger 
knight,  armed  in  panoply,  and  followed  by  two  pages 
and  an  esquire,  came  galloping  into  the  field,  and, 
riding  up  to  the  royal  balcony,  claimed  the  combat  as 
a  matter  of  right. 

"  In  me,"  cried  he,  "  behold  the  cavalier  who  had 
the  happiness  to  rescue  the  beautiful  duchess  from  the 
peril  of  the  forest,  and  the  misfortune  to  bring  on  her 
this  grievous  calumny.  It  was  but  recently,  in  the 
course  of  my  errantry,  that  tidings  of  her  wrongs  have 
reached  my  ears,  and  I  have  urged  hither  at  all  speed, 
to  stand  forth  in  her  vindication." 

No  sooner  did  the  duchess  hear  the  accents  of  the 
knight  than  she  recognized  his  voice,  and  joined  her 
prayers  with  his  that  he  might  enter  the  lists.  The 
difficulty  was  to  determine  which  of  the  three  cham 
pions  already  appointed  should  yield  his  place,  each  in 
sisting  on  the  honor  of  the  combat.  The  stranger 
knight  would  have  settled  the  point,  by  taking  the 
whole  contest  upon  himself ;  but  this  the  other  knights 
would  not  permit.  It  was  at  length  determined,  as 
before,  by  lot,  and  the  cavalier  who  lost  the  chance 
retired  murmuring  and  disconsolate. 

The  trumpets  again  sounded  —  the  lists  were  opened. 
The  arrogant  nephew  and  his  two  drawcansir  uncles 
appeared  so  completely  cased  in  steel,  that  they  and 
their  steeds  were  like  moving  masses  of  iron.  When 
they  understood  the  stranger  knight  to  be  the  same  that 
had  rescued  the  duchess  from  her  peril,  they  greeted 
him  with  the  most  boisterous  derision. 

"  O  ho !  sir  Knight  of  the  Dragon,"  said  they,  "  you 
who  pretend  to  champion  fair  widows  in  the  dark,  come 
on,  and  vindicate  your  deeds  of  darkness  in  the  open 
day." 

The  only  reply  of  the  cavalier  was  to  put  lance  in 
rest,  and  brace  himself  for  the  encounter.  Needless  is 
it  to  relate  the  particulars  of  a  battle,  which  was  like 


THE  WIDOW'S  ORDEAL  109 

so  many  hundred  combats  that  have  been  said  and  sung 
in  prose  and  verse.  Who  is  there  but  must  have  fore 
seen  the  event  of  a  contest  where  Heaven  had  to  de 
cide  on  the  guilt  or  innocence  of  the  most  beautiful 
and  immaculate  of  widows  ? 

The  sagacious  reader,  deeply  read  in  this  kind  of 
judicial  combats,  can  imagine  the  encounter  of  the 
graceless  nephew  and  the  stranger  knight.  He  sees 
their  concussion,  man  to  man,  and  horse  to  horse,  in 
mid  career,  and  sir  Graceless  hurled  to  the  ground  and 
slain.  He  will  not  wonder  that  the  assailants  of  the 
brawny  uncles  were  less  successful  in  their  rude  en 
counter;  but  he  will  picture  to  himself  the  stout 
stranger  spurring  to  their  rescue,  in  the  very  critical 
moment ;  he  will  see  him  transfixing  one  with  his  lance, 
and  cleaving  the  other  to  the  chine  with  a  back  stroke 
of  his  sword,  thus  leaving  the  trio  of  accusers  dead 
upon  the  field,  and  establishing  the  immaculate  fidelity 
of  the  duchess,  and  her  title  to  the  dukedom,  beyond 
the  shadow  of  a  doubt. 

The  air  rang  with  acclamations ;  nothing  was  heard 
but  praises  of  the  beauty  and  virtue  of  the  duchess,  and 
of  the  prowess  of  the  stranger  knight;  but  the  public 
joy  was  still  more  increased  when  the  champion  raised 
his  visor,  and  revealed  the  countenance  of  one  of  the 
bravest  cavaliers  of  Spain,  renowned  for  his  gallantry 
in  the  service  of  the  sex,  and  who  had  been  round  the 
world  in  quest  of  similar  adventures. 

That  worthy  knight,  however,  was  severely  wounded, 
and  remained  for  a  long  time  ill  of  his  wounds.  The 
lovely  duchess,  grateful  for  having  twice  owed  her 
protection  to  his  arm,  attended  him  daily  during  his 
illness,  and  finally  rewarded  his  gallantry  with  her 
hand. 

The  king  would  fain  have  had  the  knight  establish 
his  title  to  such  high  advancement  by  farther  deeds  of 
arms;  but  his  courtiers  declared  that  he  already  mer- 


no  THE  KNIGHT  OF  MALTA 

ited  the  lady,  by  thus  vindicating  her  fame  and  fortune 
in  a  deadly  combat  to  entrance;  and  the  lady  herself 
hinted  that  she  was  perfectly  satisfied  of  his  prowess  in 
arms,  from  the  proofs  she  had  received  of  his  achieve 
ment  in  the  forest. 

Their  nuptials  were  celebrated  with  great  magnifi 
cence.  The  present  husband  of  the  duchess  did  not 
pray  and  fast  like  his  predecessors,  Philibert  the  wife- 
ridden;  yet  he  found  greater  favor  in  the  eyes  of 
Heaven,  for  their  union  was  blessed  with  a  numerous 
progeny:  the  daughters  chaste  and  beauteous  as  their 
mother;  the  sons  stout  and  valiant  as  their  sire,  and 
renowned,  like  him,  for  relieving  disconsolate  damsels 
and  desolate  widows. 


THE  KNIGHT  OF  MALTA 

IN  the  course  of  a  tour  in  Sicily,  in  the  days  of  my 
juvenility,  I  passed  some  little  time  at  the  ancient  city 
of  Catania,  at  the  foot  of  Mount  ^Etna.  Here  I  be 
came  acquainted  with  the  Chevalier  L ,  an  old 

Knight  of  Malta.  It  was  not  many  years  after  the  time 
that  Napoleon  had  dislodged  the  knights  from  their 
island,  and  he  still  wore  the  insignia  of  his  order.  He 
was  not,  however,  one  of  those  reliques  of  that  once 
chivalrous  body,  who  have  been  described  as  "  a  few 
wornout  old  men,  creeping  about  certain  parts  of  Eu 
rope,  with  the  Maltese  cross  on  their  breasts  "  ;  on  the 
contrary,  though  advanced  in  life,  his  form  was  still 
lithe  and  vigorous.  He  had  a  pale,  thin,  intellectual 
visage,  with  a  high  forehead,  and  a  bright,  visionary 
eye.  He  seemed  to  take  a  fancy  to  me,  as  I  certainly 
did  to  him,  and  we  soon  became  intimate.  I  visited 
him  occasionally  at  his  apartments,  in  the  wing  of  an 
old  palace,  looking  toward  Mount  ^Etna.  He  was  an 


THE  KNIGHT  OF  MALTA  in 

antiquary,  a  virtuoso,  and  a  connoisseur.  His  rooms 
were  decorated  with  mutilated  statues,  dug  up  from 
Grecian  and  Roman  ruins ;  old  vases,  lachrymals,  and 
sepulchral  lamps.  He  had  astronomical  and  chemical 
instruments,  and  black-letter  books,  in  various  lan 
guages.  I  found  that  he  had  dipped  a  little  in  chi 
merical  studies,  and  had  a  hankering  after  astrology 
and  alchemy.  He  affected  to  believe  in  dreams  and 
visions,  and  delighted  in  the  fanciful  Rosicrucian  doc 
trines.  I  cannot  persuade  myself,  however,  that  he 
really  believed  in  all  these ;  I  rather  think  he  loved  to 
let  his  imagination  carry  him  away  into  the  boundless 
fairy  land  which  they  unfolded. 

In  company  with  the  chevalier,  I  made  several  ex 
cursions  on  horseback  about  the  environs  of  Catania, 
and  the  picturesque  skirts  of  Mount  y£tna.  One  of 
these  led  through  a  village  which  had  sprung  up  on 
the  very  track  of  an  ancient  eruption,  the  houses  being 
built  of  lava.  At  one  time  we  passed,  for  some  dis 
tance,  along  a  narrow  lane,  between  two  high  dead 
convent-walls.  It  was  a  cut-throat  looking  place,  in 
a  country  where  assassinations  are  frequent;  and  just 
about  midway  through  it  we  observed  blood  upon  the 
pavement  and  the  walls,  as  if  a  murder  had  actually 
been  committed  there. 

The  chevalier  spurred  on  his  horse,  until  he  had 
extricated  himself  completely  from  this  suspicious 
neighborhood.  He  then  observed  that  it  reminded  him 
of  a  similar  blind  alley  in  Malta,  infamous  on  account 
of  the  many  assassinations  that  had  taken  place  there; 
concerning  one  of  which  he  related  a  long  and  tragical 
story,  that  lasted  until  we  reached  Catania.  It  in 
volved  various  circumstances  of  a  wild  and  super 
natural  character,  but  which  he  assured  me  were 
handed  down  in  tradition,  and  generally  credited  by 
the  old  inhabitants  of  Malta. 

As  I  like  to  pick  up  strange  stories,  and  as  I  was 


ii2  THE  KNIGHT  OF  MALTA 

particularly  struck  with  several  parts  of  this,  I  made 
a  minute  of  it,  on  my  return  to  my  lodgings.  The 
memorandum  was  lost,  with  several  of  my  travelling 
papers,  and  the  story  had  faded  from  my  mind,  when 
recently,  on  perusing  a  French  memoir,  I  came  sud 
denly  upon  it,  dressed  up,  it  is  true,  in  a  very  different 
manner,  but  agreeing  in  the  leading  facts,  and  given 
upon  the  word  of  that  famous  adventurer,  the  Count 
Cagliostro. 

I  have  amused  myself,  during  a  snowy  day  in  the 
country,  by  rendering  it  roughly  into  English,  for  the 
entertainment  of  a  youthful  circle  round  the  Christmas 
fire.  It  was  well  received  by  my  auditors,  who,  how 
ever,  are  rather  easily  pleased.  One.  proof  of  its  merits 
is,  that  it  sent  some  of  the  youngest  of  them  quaking 
to  their  beds,  and  gave  them  very  fearful  dreams. 
Hoping  that  it  may  have  the  same  effect  upon  the 
ghost-hunting  reader,  I  subjoin  it.  I  would  observe, 
that  wherever  I  have  modified  the  French  version  of 
the  story,  it  has  been  in  conformity  to  some  recollection 
of  the  narrative  of  my  friend,  the  Knight  of  Malta. 


THE  GRAND  PRIOR  OF  MINORCA 
A  VERITABLE  GHOST   STORY 

Keep  my  wits,  heaven !    They  say  spirits  appear 
To  melancholy  minds,  and  the  graves  open ! 

FLETCHER 

About  the  middle  of  the  last  century,  while  the 
Knights  of  Saint  John  of  Jerusalem  still  maintained 
something  of  their  ancient  state  and  sway  in  the  island 
of  Malta,  a  tragical  event  took  place  there,  which  is 
the  groundwork  of  the  following  narrative. 

It  may  be  as  well  to  premise,  that,  at  the  time  we 
are  treating  of,  the  Order  of  Saint  John  of  Jerusalem, 


THE  GRAND  PRIOR  OF  MINORCA    113 

grown  excessively  wealthy,  had  degenerated  from  its 
originally  devout  and  warlike  character.  Instead  of 
being  a  hardy  body  of  "  monk-knights,"  sworn  sol 
diers  of  the  Cross,  fighting  the  Paynim  in  the  Holy 
Land,  or  scouring  the  Mediterranean,  and  scourging 
the  Barbary  coasts  with  their  galleys,  or  feeding  the 
poor,  and  attending  upon  the  sick  at  their  hospitals, 
they  led  a  life  of  luxury  and  libertinism,  and  were  to 
be  found  in  the  most  voluptuous  courts  of  Europe. 
The  order,  in  fact,  had  become  a  mode  of  providing 
for  the  needy  branches  of  the  Catholic  aristocracy  of 
Europe.  "  A  commandery,"  we  are  told,  was  a  splen 
did  provision  for  a  younger  brother;  and  men  of  rank, 
however  dissolute,  provided  they  belonged  to  the  high 
est  aristocracy,  became  Knights  of  Malta,  just  as  they 
did  bishops,  or  colonels  of  regiments,  or  court  cham 
berlains.  After  a  brief  residence  at  Malta,  the  knights 
passed  the  rest  of  their  time  in  their  own  countries,  or 
only  made  a  visit  now  and  then  to  the  island.  While 
there,  having  but  little  military  duty  to  perform,  they 
beguiled  their  idleness  by  paying  attentions  to  the  fair. 

There  was  one  circle  of  society,  however,  into  which 
they  could  not  obtain  currency.  This  was  composed 
of  a  few  families  of  the  old  Maltese  nobility,  natives 
of  the  island.  These  families,  not  being  permitted  to 
enroll  any  of  their  members  in  the  order,  affected  to 
hold  no  intercourse  with  its  chevaliers ;  admitting  none 
into  their  exclusive  coteries  but  the  Grand  Master, 
whom  they  acknowledged  as  their  sovereign,  and  the 
members  of  the  chapter  which  composed  his  council. 

To  indemnify  themseves  for  this  exclusion,  the 
chevaliers  carried  their  gallantries  into  the  next  class 
of  society,  composed  of  those  who  held  civil,  admin 
istrative,  and  judicial  situations.  The  ladies  of  this 
class  were  called  honorate,  or  honorables,  to  distin 
guish  them  from  the  inferior  orders ;  and  among  them 
were  many  of  superior  grace,  beauty,  and  fascination. 

8 


ii4  THE  KNIGHT  OF  MALTA 

Even  in  the  more  hospitable  class,  the  chevaliers 
were  not  all  equally  favored.  Those  of  Germany  had 
the  decided  preference,  owing  to  their  fair  and  fresh 
complexions,  and  the  kindliness  of  their  manners; 
next  to  these,  came  the  Spanish  cavaliers,  on  account 
of  their  profound  and  courteous  devotion,  and  most 
discreet  secrecy.  Singular  as  it  may  seem,  the  cheva 
liers  of  France  fared  the  worst.  The  Maltese  ladies 
dreaded  their  volatility,  and  their  proneness  to  boast 
of  their  amours,  and  shunned  all  entanglement  with 
them.  They  were  forced,  therefore,  to  content  them 
selves  with  conquests  among  females  of  the  lower 
orders.  They  revenged  themselves,  after  the  gay 
French  manner,  by  making  the  "  honorate  "  the  ob 
jects  of  all  kinds  of  jests  and  mystifications ;  by  prying 
into  their  tender  affairs  with  the  more  favored  cheva 
liers,  and  making  them  the  theme  of  song  and  epigram. 

About  this  time  a  French  vessel  arrived  at  Malta, 
bringing  out  a  distinguished  personage  of  the  Order 
of  Saint  John  of  Jerusalem,  the  Commander  de  Foul- 
querre,  who  came  to  solicit  the  post  of  commander- 
in-chief  of  the  galleys.  He  was  descended  from  an  old 
and  warrior  line  of  French  nobility,  his  ancestors  hav 
ing  long  been  seneschals  of  Poitou,  and  claiming  de 
scent  from  the  first  Counts  of  Angouleme. 

The  arrival  of  the  commander  caused  a  little  uneasi 
ness  among  the  peaceably  inclined,  for  he  bore  the 
character  in  the  island,  of  being  fiery,  arrogant,  and 
quarrelsome.  He  had  already  been  three  times  at 
Malta,  and  on  each  visit  had  signalized  himself  by 
some  rash  and  deadly  affray.  As  he  was  now  thirty- 
five  years  of  age,  however,  it  was  hoped  that  time 
might  have  taken  off  the  fiery  edge  of  his  spirit,  and 
that  he  might  prove  more  quiet  and  sedate  than  for 
merly.  The  commander  set  up  an  establishment  be 
fitting  his  rank  and  pretensions;  for  he  arrogated  to 
himself  an  importance  greater  even  than  that  of  the 


THE  GRAND  PRIOR  OF  MINORCA    115 

Grand  Master.  His  house  immediately  became  the 
rallying-place  of  all  the  young  French  chevaliers.  They 
informed  him  of  all  the  slights  they  had  experienced 
or  imagined,  and  indulged  their  petulant  and  satirical 
vein  at  the  expense  of  the  honorate  and  their  admirers. 
The  chevaliers  of  other  nations  soon  found  the  topics 
and  tone  of  conversation  at  the  commander's  irksome 
and  offensive,  and  gradually  ceased  to  visit  there.  The 
commander  remained  at  the  head  of  a  national  clique, 
who  looked  up  to  him  as  their  model.  If  he  was  not 
as  boisterous  and  quarrelsome  as  formerly,  he  had 
become  haughty  and  overbearing.  He  was  fond  of 
talking  over  his  past  affairs  of  punctilio  and  bloody 
duel.  When  walking  the  streets,  he  was  generally 
attended  by  a  ruffling  train  of  young  French  cheva 
liers,  who  caught  his  own  air  of  assumption  and 
bravado.  These  he  would  conduct  to  the  scenes  of 
his  deadly  encounters,  point  out  the  very  spot  where 
each  fatal  lunge  had  been  given,  and  dwell  vainglori- 
ously  on  every  particular. 

Under  his  tuition  the  young  French  chevaliers  began 
to  add  bluster  and  arrogance  to  their  former  petulance 
and  levity ;  they  fired  up  on  the  most  trivial  occasions, 
particularly  with  those  who  had  been  most  successful 
with  the  fair;  and  would  put  on  the  most  intolerable 
drawcansir  airs.  The  other  chevaliers  conducted  them 
selves  with  all  possible  forbearance  and  reserve;  but 
they  saw  it  would  be  impossible  to  keep  on  long,  in 
this  manner,  without  coming  to  an  open  rupture. 

Among  the  Spanish  cavaliers  was  one  named  Don 
Luis  de  Lima  Vasconcellos.  He  was  distantly  related 
to  the  Grand  Master;  and  had  been  enrolled  at  an 
early  age  among  his  pages,  but  had  been  rapidly  pro 
moted  by  him,  until,  at  the  age  of  twenty-six,  he  had 
been  given  the  richest  Spanish  commandery  in  the 
order.  He  had,  moreover,  been  fortunate  with  the 
fair,  with  one  of  whom,  the  most  beautiful  honor ata 


n6  THE  KNIGHT  OF  MALTA 

of  Malta,  he  had  long  maintained  the  most  tender 
correspondence. 

The  character,  rank,  and  connections  of  Don  Luis 
put  him  on  a  par  with  the  imperious  Commander  de 
Foulquerre,  and  pointed  him  out  as  a  leader  and 
champion  to  his  countrymen.  The  Spanish  cavaliers 
repaired  to  him,  therefore,  in  a  body;  represented  all 
the  grievances  they  had  sustained  and  the  evils  they 
apprehended,  and  urged  him  to  use  his  influence 
with  the  commander  and  his  adherents  to  put  a  stop 
to  the  growing  abuses. 

Don  Luis  was  gratified  by  this  mark  of  confidence 
and  esteem  on  the  part  of  his  countrymen,  and  prom 
ised  to  have  an  interview  with  the  Commander  de 
Foulquerre  on  the  subject.  He  resolved  to  conduct 
himself  with  the  utmost  caution  and  delicacy  on  the 
occasion ;  to  represent  to  the  commander  the  evil  con 
sequences  which  might  result  from  the  inconsiderate 
conduct  of  the  young  French  chevaliers,  and  to  entreat 
him  to  exert  the  great  influence  he  so  deservedly  pos 
sessed  over  them,  to  restrain  their  excesses.  Don  Luis 
was  aware,  however,  of  the  peril  that  attended  any 
interview  of  the  kind  with  this  imperious  and  fractious 
man,  and  apprehended,  however  it  might  commence, 
that  it  would  terminate  in  a  duel.  Still  it  was  an  affair 
of  honor,  in  which  Castilian  dignity  was  concerned; 
beside,  he  had  a  lurking  disgust  at  the  overbearing 
manners  of  De  Foulquerre,  and  perhaps  had  been  some 
what  offended  by  certain  intrusive  attentions  which  he 
had  presumed  to  pay  to  the  beautiful  honorata. 

It  was  now  Holy  Week;  a  time  too  sacred  for 
worldy  feuds  and  passions,  especially  in  a  community 
under  the  dominion  of  a  religious  order :  it  was  agreed, 
therefore,  that  the  dangerous  interview  in  question 
should  not  take  place  until  after  the  Easter  holidays. 
It  is  probable,  from  subsequent  circumstances,  that 
the  Commander  de  Foulquerre  had  some  information 


117 

of  this  arrangement  among  the  Spanish  cavaliers,  and 
was  determined  to  be  beforehand,  and  to  mortify  the 
pride  of  their  champion,  who  was  thus  preparing  to 
read  him  a  lecture.  He  chose  Good  Friday  for  his 
purpose.  On  this  sacred  day  it  is  customary,  in  Cath 
olic  countries,  to  make  a  tour  of  all  the  churches,  offer 
ing  up  prayers  in  each.  In  every  Catholic  church, 
as  is  well  known,  there  is  a  vessel  of  holy  water  near 
the  door.  In  this,  every  one,  on  entering,  dips  his 
ringers,  and  makes  therewith  the  sign  of  the  cross  on 
his  forehead  and  breast.  An  office  of  gallantry,  among 
the  young  Spaniards,  is  to  stand  near  the  door,  dip 
their  hands  in  the  holy  vessel,  and  extend  them  courte 
ously  and  respectfully  to  any  lady  of  their  acquaint 
ance  who  may  enter;  who  thus  receives  the  sacred 
water  at  second  hand,  on  the  tips  of  her  fingers,  and 
proceeds  to  cross  herself  with  all  due  decorum.  The 
Spaniards,  who  are  the  most  jealous  of  lovers,  are 
impatient  when  this  piece  of  devotional  gallantry  is 
proffered  to  the  object  of  their  affections  by  any  other 
hand :  on  Good  Friday,  therefore,  when  a  lady  makes 
a  tour  of  the  churches,  it  is  the  usage  among  them  for 
the  inamorato  to  follow  her  from  church  to  church,  so 
as  to  present  her  the  holy  water  at  the  door  of  each; 
thus  testifying  his  own  devotion,  and  at  the  same  time 
preventing  the  officious  services  of  a  rival. 

On  the  day  in  question  Don  Luis  followed  the  beauti 
ful  honorata,  to  whom,  as  has  already  been  observed, 
he  had  long  been  devoted.  At  the  very  first  church 
she  visited,  the  Commander  de  Foulquerre  was  sta 
tioned  at  the  portal,  with  several  of  the  young  French 
chevaliers  about  him.  Before  Don  Luis  could  offer  her 
the  holy  water,  he  was  anticipated  by  the  commander, 
who  thrust  himself  between  them,  and,  while  he  per 
formed  the  gallant  office  to  the  lady,  rudely  turned  his 
back  upon  her  admirer,  and  trod  upon  his  feet.  The 
insult  was  enjoyed  by  the  young  Frenchmen  who  were 


n8  THE  KNIGHT  OF  MALTA 

present :  it  was  too  deep  and  grave  to  be  forgiven  by 
Spanish  pride;  and  at  once  put  an  end  to  all  Don 
Luis's  plans  of  caution  and  forbearance.  He  repressed 
his  passion  for  the  moment,  however,  and  waited  until 
all  the  parties  left  the  church :  then,  accosting  the  com 
mander  with  an  air  of  coolness  and  unconcern,  he  in 
quired  after  his  health,  and  asked  to  what  church  he 
proposed  making  his  second  visit.  "  To  the  Magis 
terial  Church  of  St.  John."  Don  Luis  offered  to  con 
duct  him  thither  by  the  shortest  route.  His  offer  was 
accepted,  apparently  without  suspicion,  and  they  pro 
ceeded  together.  After  walking  some  distance,  they 
entered  a  long,  narrow  lane,  without  door  or  window 
opening  upon  it,  called  the  "  Strada  Stretta,"  or  nar 
row  street.  It  was  a  street  in  which  duels  were  tacitly 
permitted,  or  connived  at,  in  Malta,  and  were  suffered 
to  pass  as  accidental  encounters.  Everywhere  else 
they  were  prohibited.  This  restriction  had  been  in 
stituted  to  diminish  the  number  of  duels  formerly  so 
frequent  in  Malta.  As  a  farther  precaution  to  render 
these  encounters  less  fatal,  it  was  an  offence,  punish 
able  with  death,  for  any  one  to  enter  this  street  armed 
with  either  poniard  or  pistol.  It  was  a  lonely,  dismal 
street,  just  wide  enough  for  two  men  to  stand  upon 
their  guard  and  cross  their  swords;  few  persons  ever 
traversed  it,  unless  with  some  sinister  design;  and  on 
any  preconcerted  duello,  the  seconds  posted  themselves 
at  each  end,  to  stop  all  passengers  and  prevent 
interruption. 

In  the  present  instance,  the  parties  had  scarce  entered 
the  street,  when  Don  Luis  drew  his  sword,  and  called 
upon  the  commander  to  defend  himself. 

De  Foulquerre  was  evidently  taken  by  surprise:  he 
drew  back,  and  attempted  to  expostulate;  but  Don 
Luis  persisted  in  defying  him  to  the  combat. 

After  a  second  or  two,  he  likewise  drew  his  sword, 
but  immediately  lowered  the  point. 


THE  GRAND  PRIOR   OF  MINORCA    119 

"  Good  Friday !  "  ejaculated  he,  shaking  his  head : 
"  one  word  with  you ;  it  is  full  six  years  since  I  have 
been  in  a  confessional :  I  am  shocked  at  the  state  of  my 
conscience ;  but  within  three  days  —  that  is  to  say,  on 
Monday  next  " 

Don  Luis  would  listen  to  nothing.  Though  natur 
ally  of  a  peaceable  disposition,  he  had  been  stung  to 
fury;  and  people  of  that  character,  when  once  in 
censed,  are  deaf  to  reason.  He  compelled  the  com 
mander  to  put  himself  on  his  guard.  The  latter,  though 
a  man  accustomed  to  brawl  and  battle,  was  singularly 
dismayed.  Terror  was  visible  in  all  his  features.  He 
placed  himself  with  his  back  to  the  wall,  and  the 
weapons  were  crossed.  The  contest  was  brief  and 
fatal.  At  the  very  first  thrust  the  sword  of  Don  Luis 
passed  through  the  body  of  his  antagonist.  The  com 
mander  staggered  to  the  wall,  and  leaned  against  it. 

"On  Good  Friday!"  ejaculated  he  again,  with  a 
failing  voice  and  despairing  accents.  "  Heaven  pardon 
you !  "  added  he ;  "  take  my  sword  to  Tetefoulques, 
and  have  a  hundred  masses  performed  in  the  chapel  of 
the  castle,  for  the  repose  of  my  soul ! "  With  these 
words  he  expired. 

The  fury  of  Don  Luis  was  at  an  end.  He  stood 
aghast,  gazing  at  the  bleeding  body  of  the  commander. 
He  called  to  mind  the  prayer  of  the  deceased  for  three 
days'  respite,  to  make  his  peace  with  Heaven ;  he  had 
refused  it ;  had  sent  him  to  the  grave,  with  all  his  sins 
upon  his  head !  His  conscience  smote  him  to  the  core ; 
he  gathered  up  the  sword  of  the  commander,  which 
he  had  been  enjoined  to  take  to  Tetefoulques,  and  hur 
ried  from  the  fatal  Strada  Stretta. 

The  duel,  of  course,  made  a  great  noise  in  Malta, 
but  had  no  injurious  effect  on  the  worldly  fortunes  of 
Don  Luis.  He  made  a  full  declaration  of  the  whole 
matter,  before  the  proper  authorities;  the  chapter  of 
the  order  considered  it  one  of  those  casual  encounters 


120  THE  KNIGHT  OF  MALTA 

of  the  Strada  Stretta,  which  were  mourned  over,  but 
tolerated;  the  public,  by  whom  the  late  commander 
had  been  generally  detested,  declared  that  he  deserved 
his  fate.  It  was  but  three  days  after  the  event  that 
Don  Luis  was  advanced  to  one  of  the  highest  dignities 
of  the  order,  being  invested  by  the  Grand  Master  with 
the  Priorship  of  the  kingdom  of  Minorca. 

From  that  time  forward,  however,  the  whole  char 
acter  and  conduct  of  Don  Luis  underwent  a  change. 
He  became  a  prey  to  a  dark  melancholy,  which  nothing 
could  assuage.  The  most  austere  piety,  the  severest 
penances,  had  no  effect  in  allaying  the  horror  which 
preyed  upon  his  mind.  He  was  absent  for  a  long  time 
from  Malta,  having  gone,  it  was  said,  on  remote  pil 
grimages:  when  he  returned,  he  was  more  haggard 
than  ever.  There  seemed  something  mysterious  and 
inexplicable  in  this  disorder  of  his  mind.  The  follow 
ing  is  the  revelation,  made  by  himself,  of  the  horrible 
visions  or  chimeras  by  which  he  was  haunted :  — 

"  When  I  had  made  my  declaration  before  the  chap 
ter,"  said  he,  "  my  provocations  were  publicly  known, 
—  I  had  made  my  peace  with  man ;  but  it  was  not  so 
with  God,  nor  with  my  confessor,  nor  with  my  own 
conscience.  My  act  was  doubly  criminal,  from  the  day 
on  which  it  was  committed,  and  from  my  refusal  to  a 
delay  of  three  days,  for  the  victim  of  my  resentment  to 
receive  the  sacraments.  His  despairing  ejaculation, 
'  Good  Friday !  Good  Friday ! '  continually  rang  in 
my  ears.  '  Why  did  I  not  grant  the  respite ! '  cried  I 
to  myself ;  '  was  it  not  enough  to  kill  the  body,  but 
must  I  seek  to  kill  the  soul ! ' 

"  On  the  night  following  Friday  I  started  suddenly 
from  my  sleep.  An  unaccountable  horror  was  upon 
me.  I  looked  wildly  around.  It  seemed  as  if  I  were 
not  in  my  apartment,  nor  in  my  bed,  but  in  the  fatal 
Strada  Stretta,  lying  on  the  pavement.  I  again  saw 
the  commander  leaning  against  the  wall ;  I  again  heard 


THE  GRAND  PRIOR  OF  MINORCA    121 

his  dying  words :  '  Take  my  sword  to  Tetefoulques, 
and  have  a  hundred  masses  performed  in  the  chapel 
of  the  castle,  for  the  repose  of  my  soul ! ' 

"  On  the  following  night  I  caused  one  of  my  ser 
vants  to  sleep  in  the  same  room  with  me.  I  saw  and 
heard  nothing,  either  on  that  night  or  any  of  the  nights 
following,  until  the  next  Friday,  when  I  had  again 
the  same  vision,  with  this  difference,  that  my  valet 
seemed  to  be  lying  some  distance  from  me  on  the 
pavement  of  the  Strada  Stretta.  The  vision  continued 
to  be  repeated  on  every  Friday  night,  the  commander 
always  appearing  in  the  same  manner,  and  uttering 
the  same  words :  '  Take  my  sword  to  Tetefoulques,  and 
have  a  hundred  masses  performed  in  the  chapel  of  the 
castle,  for  the  repose  of  my  soul ! ' 

"  On  questioning  my  servant  on  the  subject,  he 
stated  that  on  these  occasions  he  dreamed  that  he  was 
lying  in  a  very  narrow  street,  but  he  neither  saw  nor 
heard  anything  of  the  commander. 

"  I  knew  nothing  of  this  Tetefoulques,  whither  the 
defunct  was  so  urgent  I  should  carry  his  sword.  I 
made  inquiries,  therefore,  concerning  it,  among  the 
French  chevaliers.  They  informed  me  that  it  was  an 
old  castle,  situated  about  four  leagues  from  Poitiers, 
in  the  midst  of  a  forest.  It  had  been  built  in  old  times, 
several  centuries  since,  by  Foulques  Taillefer  (or 
Fulke-Hackiron),  a  redoubtable  hard-fighting  Count 
of  Angouleme,  who  gave  it  to  an  illegitimate  son, 
afterwards  created  Grand  Seneschal  of  Poitou,  which 
son  became  the  progenitor  of  the  Foulquerres  of  Tete 
foulques,  hereditary  seneschals  of  Poitou.  They  far 
ther  informed  me,  that  strange  stories  were  told  of 
this  old  castle,  in  the  surrounding  country,  and  that 
it  contained  many  curious  reliques.  Among  these 
were  the  arms  of  Foulques  Taillefer,  together  with 
those  of  the  warriors  he  had  slain ;  and  that  it  was  an 
immemorial  usage  with  the  Foulquerres  to  have  the 


122  THE  KNIGHT  OF  MALTA 

weapons  deposited  there  which  they  had  yielded  either 
in  war  or  single  combat.  This,  then,  was  the  reason 
of  the  dying  injunction  of  the  commander  respect 
ing  his  sword.  I  carried  this  weapon  with  me  where- 
ever  I  went,  but  still  I  neglected  to  comply  with  his 
request. 

"  The  vision  still  continued  to  harass  me  with  un- 
diminished  horror.  I  repaired  to  Rome,  where  I  con 
fessed  myself  to  the  Grand  Cardinal  penitentiary,  and 
informed  him  of  the  terrors  with  which  I  was  haunted. 
He  promised  me  absolution,  after  I  should  have  per 
formed  certain  acts  of  penance,  the  principal  of  which 
was  to  execute  the  dying  request  of  the  commander, 
by  carrying  his  sword  to  Tetefoulques,  and  having  the 
hundred  masses  performed  in  the  chapel  of  the  castle 
for  the  repose  of  his  soul. 

"  I  set  out  for  France  as  speedily  as  possible,  and 
made  no  delay  in  my  journey.  On  arriving  at  Poitiers, 
I  found  that  the  tidings  of  the  death  of  the  commander 
had  reached  there,  but  had  caused  no  more  affliction 
than  among  the  people  of  Malta.  Leaving  my  equipage 
in  the  town,  I  put  on  the  garb  erf  a  pilgrim,  and  taking 
a  guide,  set  out  on  foot  for  Tetefoulques.  Indeed, 
the  roads  in  this  part  of  the  country  were  impracticable 
for  carriages. 

"  I  found  the  castle  of  Tetefoulques  a  grand  but 
gloomy  and  dilapidated  pile.  All  the  gates  were  closed, 
and  there  reigned  over  the  whole  place  an  air  of  almost 
savage  loneliness  and  desertion.  I  had  understood  that 
its  only  inhabitants  were  the  concierge,  or  warder,  and 
a  kind  of  hermit  who  had  charge  of  the  chapel.  After 
ringing  for  some  time  at  the  gate,  I  at  length  suc 
ceeded  in  bringing  forth  the  warder,  who  bowed  with 
reverence  to  my  pilgrim's  garb.  I  begged  him  to  con 
duct  me  to  the  chapel,  that  being  the  end  of  my  pil 
grimage.  We  found  the  hermit  there,  chanting  the 
funeral  service:  a  dismal  sound  to  one  who  came  to 


THE  GRAND  PRIOR  OF  MINORCA    123 

perform  a  penance  for  the  death  of  a  member  of  the 
family.  When  he  had  ceased  to  chant,  I  informed  him 
that  I  came  to  accomplish  an  obligation  of  conscience, 
and  that  I  wished  him  to  perform  a  hundred  masses 
for  the  repose  of  the  soul  of  the  commander.  He 
replied  that,  not  being  in  orders,  he  was  not  authorized 
to  perform  mass,  but  that  he  would  willingly  under 
take  to  see  that  my  debt  of  conscience  was  discharged. 
I  laid  my  offering  on  the  altar,  and  would  have  placed 
the  sword  of  the  commander  there  likewise.  '  Hold ! ' 
said  the  hermit,  with  a  melancholy  shake  of  the  head, 
'  this  is  no  place  for  so  deadly  a  weapon,  that  has 
so  often  been  bathed  in  Christian  blood.  Take  it  to 
the  armory;  you  will  find  there  trophies  enough  of 
like  character.  It  is  a  place  into  which  I  never 
enter.' 

"  The  warder  here  took  up  the  theme  abandoned  by 
the  peaceful  man  of  God.  He  assured  me  that  I  would 
see  in  the  armory  the  swords  of  all  the  warrior  race 
of  Foulquerres,  together  with  those  of  the  enemies 
over  whom  they  had  triumphed.  This,  he  observed, 
had  been  a  usage  kept  up  since  the  time  of  Mellusine, 
and  of  her  husband,  Geoffrey  a  la  Grand-dent,  or 
Geoffrey  with  the  Great-tooth. 

"  I  followed  the  gossiping  warder  to  the  armory. 
It  was  a  great  dusty  hall,  hung  round  with  Gothic- 
looking  portraits  of  a  stark  line  of  warriors,  each  with 
his  weapon,  and  the  weapons  of  those  he  had  slain  in 
battle,  hung  beside  his  picture.  The  most  conspicuous 
portrait  was  that  of  Foulques  Taillefer  (Fulke-Hack- 
iron),  Count  of  Angouleme,  and  founder  of  the  castle. 
He  was  represented  at  full  length,  armed  cap-a-pie, 
and  grasping  a  huge  buckler,  on  which  were  emblaz 
oned  three  lions  passant.  The  figure  was  so  striking, 
that  it  seemed  ready  to  start  from  the  canvas;  and  I 
observed  beneath  this  picture  a  trophy  composed  of 
many  weapons,  proofs  of  the  numerous  triumphs  of 


1*4  THE  KNIGHT  OF  MALTA 

this  hard-fighting  old  cavalier.  Beside  the  weapons 
connected  with  the  portraits,  there  were  swords  of  all 
shapes,  sizes,  and  centuries,  hung  round  the  hall,  with 
piles  of  armor  placed,  as  it  were,  in  effigy. 

"  On  each  side  of  an  immense  chimney  were  sus 
pended  the  portraits  of  the  first  seneschal  of  Poitou 
(the  illegitimate  son  of  Foulques  Taillefer)  and  his 
wife,  Isabella  de  Lusignan,  the  progenitors  of  the  grim 
race  of  Foulquerres  that  frowned  around.  They  had 
the  look  of  being  perfect  likenesses;  and  as  I  gazed 
on  them,  I  fancied  I  could  trace  in  their  antiquated 
features  some  family  resemblance  to  their  unfortunate 
descendant  whom  I  had  slain!  This  was  a  dismal 
neighborhood,  yet  the  armory  was  the  only  part  of  the 
castle  that  had  a  habitable  air;  so  I  asked  the  warder 
whether  he  could  not  make  a  fire,  and  give  me  some 
thing  for  supper  there,  and  prepare  me  a  bed  in  one 
corner. 

"  '  A  fire  and  a  supper  you  shall  have,  and  that  cheer 
fully,  most  worthy  pilgrim,'  said  he ;  '  but  as  to  a  bed, 
I  advise  you  to  come  and  sleep  in  my  chamber.' 

"  '  Why  so  ?  '  inquired  I ;  '  why  shall  I  not  sleep  in 
this  hall?' 

"  '  I  have  my  reasons ;  I  will  make  a  bed  for  you 
close  to  mine.' 

"  I  made  no  objections,  for  I  recollected  that  it  was 
Friday,  and  I  dreaded  the  return  of  my  vision.  He 
brought  in  billets  of  wood,  kindled  a  fire  in  the  great 
overhanging  chimney,  and  then  went  forth  to  prepare 
my  supper.  I  drew  a  heavy  chair  before  the  fire,  and 
seating  myself  in  it,  gazed  musingly  round  upon  the 
portraits  of  the  Foulquerres  and  the  antiquated  armor 
and  weapons,  the  mementos  of  many  a  bloody  deed. 
As  the  day  declined,  the  smoky  draperies  of  the  hall 
gradually  became  confounded  with  the  dark  ground  of 
the  paintings,  and  the  lurid  gleams  from  the  chimney 
only  enabled  me  to  see  visages  staring  at  me  from  the 


THE  GRAND  PRIOR  OF  MINORCA    125 

gathering  darkness.  All  this  was  dismal  in  the  ex 
treme,  and  somewhat  appalling;  perhaps  it  was  the 
state  of  my  conscience  that  rendered  me  peculiarly 
sensitive  and  prone  to  fearful  imaginings. 

"  At  length  the  warder  brought  in  my  supper.  It 
consisted  of  a  dish  of  trout  and  some  crawfish  taken 
in  the  fosse  of  the  castle.  He  procured  also  a  bottle 
of  wine,  which  he  informed  me  was  wine  of  Poitou. 
I  requested  him  to  invite  the  hermit  to  join  me  in  my 
repast,  but  the  holy  man  sent  back  word  that  he  allowed 
himself  nothing  but  roots  and  herbs,  cooked  with  water. 
I  took  my  meal,  therefore,  alone,  but  prolonged  it  as 
much  as  possible,  and  sought  to  cheer  my  drooping 
spirits  by  the  wine  of  Poitou,  which  I  found  very 
tolerable. 

"  When  supper  was  over  I  prepared  for  my  evening 
devotions.  I  have  always  been  very  punctual  in  re 
citing  my  breviary;  it  is  the  prescribed  and  bounden 
duty  of  all  cavaliers  of  the  religious  orders;  and  I  can 
answer  for  it,  is  faithfully  performed  by  those  of 
Spain.  I  accordingly  drew  forth  from  my  pocket  a 
small  missal  and  a  rosary,  and  told  the  warder  he  need 
only  designate  to  me  the  way  to  his  chamber,  where  I 
could  come  and  rejoin  him  when  I  had  finished  my 
prayers. 

"  He  accordingly  pointed  out  a  winding  staircase 
opening  from  the  hall.  '  You  will  descend  this  stair 
case,'  said  he,  '  until  you  come  to  the  fourth  landing- 
place,  where  you  enter  a  vaulted  passage,  terminated 
by  an  arcade,  with  a  statue  of  the  blessed  Jeanne  of 
France;  you  cannot  help  finding  my  room,  the  door 
of  which  I  will  leave  open;  it  is  the  sixth  door  from 
the  landing-place.  I  advise  you  not  to  remain  in  this 
hall  after  midnight.  Before  that  hour  you  will  hear 
the  hermit  ring  the  bell,  in  going  the  rounds  of  the 
corridors.  Do  not  linger  here  after  that  signal.' 

"  The  warder  retired,  and  I  commenced  my  devo- 


126  THE  KNIGHT  OF  MALTA 

tions.  I  continued  at  them  earnestly,  pausing  from 
time  to  time  to  put  wood  upon  the  fire.  I  did  not  dare 
to  look  much  around  me,  for  I  felt  myself  becoming 
a  prey  to  fearful  fancies.  The  pictures  appeared  to 
become  animated.  If  I  regarded  one  attentively,  for 
any  length  of  time,  it  seemed  to  move  the  eyes  and 
lips.  Above  all,  the  portraits  of  the  Grand  Seneschal 
and  his  lady,  which  hung  on  each  side  of  the  great 
chimney,  the  progenitors  of  the  Foulquerres  of  Tete- 
foulques,  regarded  me,  I  thought,  with  angry  and 
baleful  eyes ;  I  even  fancied  they  exchanged  significant 
glances  with  each  other.  Just  then  a  terrible  blast  of 
wind  shook  all  the  casements,  and,  rushing  through 
the  hall,  made  a  fearful  rattling  and  clashing  among 
the  armor.  To  my  startled  fancy,  it  seemed  something 
supernatural. 

"  At  length  I  heard  the  bell  of  the  hermit,  and  has 
tened  to  quit  the  hall.  Taking  a  solitary  light,  which 
stood  on  the  supper-table,  I  descended  the  winding 
staircase,  but  before  I  had  reached  the  vaulted  passage 
leading  to  the  statue  of  the  blessed  Jeanne  of  France, 
a  blast  of  wind  extinguished  my  taper.  I  hastily  re 
mounted  the  stairs,  to  light  it  again  at  the  chimney; 
but  judge  of  my  feelings,  when,  on  arriving  at  the 
entrance  to  the  armory,  I  beheld  the  Seneschal  and  his 
lady,  who  had  descended  from  their  frames,  and  seated 
themselves  on  each  side  of  the  fireplace! 

"  '  Madam,  my  love,'  said  the  Seneschal,  with  great 
formality  and  in  antiquated  phrase,  '  what  think  you 
of  the  presumption  of  this  Castilian,  who  comes  to 
harbor  himself  and  make  wassail  in  this  our  castle, 
after  having  slain  our  descendant,  the  commander,  and 
that  without  granting  him  time  for  confession?' 

'  Truly,  my  lord,'  answered  the  female  spectre, 
with  no  less  stateliness  of  manner,  and  with  great  as 
perity  of  tone  —  *  truly,  my  lord,  I  opine  that  this 
Castilian  did  a  grievous  wrong  in  this  encounter,  and 


THE  GRAND   PRIOR  OF  MINORCA     127 

he  should  never  be  suffered  to  depart  hence,  without 
your  throwing  him  the  gauntlet.'  I  paused  to  hear 
no  more,  but  rushed  again  down  stairs  to  seek  the  cham 
ber  of  the  warder.  It  was  impossible  to  find  it  in  the 
darkness  and  in  the  perturbation  of  my  mind.  After 
an  hour  and  a  half  of  fruitless  search,  and  mortal 
horror  and  anxieties,  I  endeavored  to  persuade  myself 
that  the  day  was  about  to  break,  and  listened  impa 
tiently  .for  the  crowing  of  the  cock;  for  I  thought  if 
I  could  hear  his  cheerful  note,  I  should  be  reassured; 
catching,  in  the  disordered  state  of  my  nerves,  at  the 
popular  notion  that  ghosts  never  appear  after  the  first 
crowing  of  the  cock. 

"  At  length  I  rallied  myself,  and  endeavored  to  shake 
off  the  vague  terrors  which  haunted  me.  I  tried  to  per 
suade  myself  that  the  two  figures  which  I  had  seemed 
to  see  and  hear,  had  existed  only  in  my  troubled  im 
agination.  I  still  had  the  end  of  a  candle  in  my  hand, 
and  determined  to  make  another  effort  to  relight  it  and 
find  my  way  to  bed,  for  I  was  ready  to  sink  with 
fatigue.  I  accordingly  sprang  up  the  staircase,  three 
steps  at  a  time,  stopped  at  the  door  of  the  armory,  and 
peeped  cautiously  in.  The  two  Gothic  figures  were 
no  longer  in  the  chimneycorners,  but  I  neglected  to 
notice  whether  they  had  reascended  to  their  frames. 
I  entered  and  made  desperately  for  the  fireplace,  but 
scarce  had  I  advanced  three  strides,  when  Messire 
Foulques  Taillefer  stood  before  me,  in  the  centre  of 
the  hall,  armed  cap-a-pie,  and  standing  in  guard,  with 
the  point  of  his  sword  silently  presented  to  me.  I 
would  have  retreated  to  the  staircase,  but  the  door  of 
it  was  occupied  by  the  phantom  figure  of  an  esquire, 
who  rudely  flung  a  gauntlet  in  my  face.  Driven  to 
fury,  I  snatched  down  a  sword  from  the  wall;  by 
chance,  it  was  that  of  the  commander  which  I  had 
placed  there.  I  rushed  upon  my  fantastic  adversary, 
and  seemed  to  pierce  him  through  and  through;  but 


I28  THE  KNIGHT  OF  MALTA 

at  the  same  time  I  felt  as  if  something  pierced  my 
heart,  burning  like  a  red-hot  iron.  My  blood  inundated 
the  hall,  and  I  fell  senseless. 

"  When  I  recovered  consciousness,  it  was  broad  day, 
and  I  found  myself  in  a  small  chamber,  attended  by  the 
warder  and  the  hermit.  The  former  told  me  that  on 
the  previous  night  he  had  awakened  long  after  the 
midnight  hour,  and  perceiving  that  I  had  not  come  to 
his  chamber,  he  had  furnished  himself  with  a  vase  of 
holy  water,  and  set  out  to  seek  me.  He  found  me 
stretched  senseless  on  the  pavement  of  the  armory,  and 
bore  me  to  his  room.  I  spoke  of  my  wound,  and  of 
the  quantity  of  blood  that  I  had  lost.  He  shook  his 
head,  and  knew  nothing  about  it ;  and  to  my  surprise, 
on  examination,  I  found  myself  perfectly  sound  and 
unharmed.  The  wound  and  blood,  therefore,  had  been 
all  delusion.  Neither  the  warder  nor  the  hermit  put 
any  questions  to  me,  but  advised  me  to  leave  the  castle 
as  soon  as  possible.  I  lost  no  time  in  complying  with 
their  counsel,  and  felt  my  heart  relieved  from  an  op 
pressive  weight,  as  I  left  the  gloomy  and  fate-bound 
batttlements  of  Tetefoulques  behind  me. 

"  I  arrived  at  Bayonne,  on  my  way  to  Spain,  on  the 
following  Friday.  At  midnight  I  was  startled  from 
my  sleep,  as  I  had  formerly  been ;  but  it  was  no  longer 
by  the  vision  of  the  dying  commander.  It  was  old 
Foulques  Taillefer  who  stood  before  me,  armed  cap- 
a-pie,  and  presenting  the  point  of  his  sword.  I  made 
the  sign  of  the  cross,  and  the  spectre  vanished,  but  I 
received  the  same  red-hot  thrust  in  the  heart  which  I 
had  felt  in  the  armory,  and  I  seemed  to  be  bathed  in 
blood.  I  would  have  called  out,  or  have  risen  from  my 
bed  and  gone  in  quest  of  succor,  but  I  could  neither 
speak  nor  stir.  This  agony  endured  until  the  crowing 
of  the  cock,  when  I  fell  asleep  again ;  but  the  next  day 
I  was  ill,  and  in  a  most  pitiable  state.  I  have  continued 


TIME  OF  UNEXAMPLED  PROSPERITY     129 

to  be  harassed  by  the  same  vision  every  Friday  night; 
no  acts  of  penitence  and  devotion  have  been  able  to 
relieve  me  from  it;  and  it  is  only  a  lingering  hope  in 
divine  mercy  that  sustains  me,  and  enables  me  to  sup 
port  so  lamentable  a  visitation." 

The  Grand  Prior  of  Minorca  wasted  gradually  away 
under  this  constant  remorse  of  conscience  and  this 
horrible  incubus.  He  died  some  time  after  having 
revealed  the  preceding  particulars  of  his  case,  evidently 
the  victim  of  a  diseased  imagination. 

The  above  relation  has  been  rendered,  in  many  parts 
literally,  from  the  French  memoir,  in  which  it  is  given 
as  a  true  story:  if  so,  it  is  one  of  those  instances  in 
which  truth  is  more  romantic  than  fiction. 


"A  TIME   OF  UNEXAMPLED 
PROSPERITY" 

IN  the  course  of  a  voyage  from  England,  I  once  fell 
in  with  a  convoy  of  merchant  ships,  bound  for  the 
West  Indies.  The  weather  was  uncommonly  bland; 
and  the  ships  vied  with  each  other  in  spreading  sail 
to  catch  a  light,  favoring  breeze,  until  their  hulls 
were  almost  hidden  beneath  a  cloud  of  canvas.  The 
breeze  went  down  with  the  sun,  and  his  last  yellow 
rays  shone  upon  a  thousand  sails,  idly  flapping  against 
the  masts. 

I  exulted  in  the  beauty  of  the  scene,  and  augured 
a  prosperous  voyage;  but  the  veteran  master  of  the 
ship  shook  his  head,  and  pronounced  this  halcyon  calm 
a  "  weather-breeder."  And  so  it  proved.  A  storm 
burst  forth  in  the  night;  the  sea  roared  and  raged; 
and  when  the  day  broke  I  beheld  the  late  gallant  con- 

9 


130     TIME  OF  UNEXAMPLED   PROSPERITY 

voy  scattered  in  every  direction;  some  dismasted, 
others  scudding  under  bare  poles,  and  many  firing 
signals  of  distress. 

I  have  since  been  occasionally  reminded  of  this  scene, 
by  those  calm,  sunny  seasons  in  the  commercial  world, 
which  are  known  by  the  name  of  "  times  of  unexampled 
prosperity."  They  are  the  sure  weather-breeders  of 
traffic.  Every  now  and  then  the  world  is  visited  by 
one  of  these  delusive  seasons,  when  "  the  credit  sys 
tem,"  as  it  is  called,  expands  to  full  luxuriance ;  every 
body  trusts  everybody ;  a  bad  debt  is  a  thing  unheard 
of;  the  broad  way  to  certain  and  sudden  wealth  lies 
plain  and  open ;  and  men  are  tempted  to  dash  forward 
boldly,  from  the  facility  of  borrowing. 

Promissory  notes,  interchanged  between  scheming 
individuals,  are  liberally  discounted  at  the  banks,  which 
become  so  many  mints  to  coin  words  into  cash;  and 
as  the  supply  of  words  is  inexhaustible,  it  may  readily 
be  supposed  what  a  vast  amount  of  promissory  capital 
is  soon  in  circulation.  Every  one  now  talks  in  thou 
sands;  nothing  is  heard  but  gigantic  operations  in 
trade ;  great  purchases  and  sales  of  real  property,  and 
immense  sums  made  at  every  transfer.  All,  to  be 
sure,  as  yet  exists  in  promise;  but  the  believer  in 
promises  calculates  the  aggregate  as  solid  capital,  and 
falls  back  in  amazement  at  the  amount  of  public  wealth, 
the  "  unexampled  state  of  public  prosperity !  " 

Now  is  the  time  for  speculative  and  dreaming  or 
designing  men.  They  relate  their  dreams  and  projects 
to  the  ignorant  and  credulous,  dazzle  them  with  golden 
visions,  and  set  them  maddening  after  shadows.  The 
example  of  one  stimulates  another;  speculation  rises 
on  speculation ;  bubble  rises  on  bubble ;  every  one  helps 
with  his  breath  to  swell  the  windy  superstructure,  and 
admires  and  wonders  at  the  magnitude  of  the  inflation 
he  has  contributed  to  produce. 

Speculation  is  the  romance  of  trade,  and  casts  con- 


TIME  OF  UNEXAMPLED  PROSPERITY     131 

tempt  upon  all  its  sober  realities.  It  renders  the  stock 
jobber  a  magician,  and  the  exchange  a  region  of  en 
chantment.  It  elevates  the  merchant  into  a  kind  of 
knight-errant,  or  rather  a  commercial  Quixote.  The 
slow  but  sure  gains  of  snug  percentage  become  despi 
cable  in  his  eyes :  no  "  operation  "  is  thought  worthy 
of  attention,  that  does  not  double  or  treble  the  invest 
ment.  No  business  is  worth  following,  that  does  not 
promise  an  immediate  fortune.  As  he  sits  musing  over 
his  ledger,  with  pen  behind  his  ear,  he  is  like  La 
Mancha's  hero  in  his  study,  dreaming  over  his  books 
of  chivalry.  His  dusty  counting-house  fades  before 
his  eyes,  or  changes  into  a  Spanish  mine :  he  gropes 
after  diamonds,  or  dives  after  pearls.  The  subter 
ranean  garden  of  Aladdin  is  nothing  to  the  realms  of 
wealth  that  break  upon  his  imagination. 

Could  this  delusion  always  last,  the  life  of  a  mer 
chant  would  indeed  be  a  golden  dream;  but  it  is  as 
short  as  it  is  brilliant.  Let  but  a  doubt  enter,  and  the 
"  season  of  unexampled  prosperity  "  is  at  end.  The 
coinage  of  words  is  suddenly  curtailed ;  the  promissory 
capital  begins  to  vanish  into  smoke ;  a  panic  succeeds, 
and  the  whole  superstructure,  built  upon  credit,  and 
reared  by  speculation,  crumbles  to  the  ground,  leaving 
scarce  a  wreck  behind : 

It  is  such  stuff  as  dreams  are  made  of. 

When  a  man  of  business,  therefore,  hears  on  every 
side  rumors  of  fortunes  suddenly  acquired;  when  he 
finds  banks  liberal,  and  brokers  busy;  when  he  sees 
adventurers  flush  of  paper  capital,  and  full  of  scheme 
and  enterprise;  when  he  perceives  a  greater  disposi 
tion  to  buy  than  to  sell;  when  trade  overflows  its 
accustomed  channels,  and  deluges  the  country;  when 
he  hears  of  new  regions  of  commercial  adventure;  of 
distant  marts  and  distant  mines,  swallowing  merchan 
dise  and  disgorging  gold;  when  he  finds  joint  stock 


132     TIME  OF  UNEXAMPLED   PROSPERITY 

companies  of  all  kinds  forming;  railroads,  canals,  and 
locomotive  engines,  springing  up  on  every  side ;  when 
idlers  suddenly  become  men  of  business,  and  dash  into 
the  game  of  commerce  as  they  would  into  the  hazards 
of  the  faro-table;  when  he  beholds  the  streets  glitter 
ing  with  new  equipages,  palaces  conjured  up  by  the 
magic  of  speculation,  tradesmen  flushed  with  sudden 
success,  and  vying  with  each  other  in  ostentatious  ex 
pense  ;  in  a  word,  when  he  hears  the  whole  community 
joining  in  the  theme  of  "  unexampled  prosperity,"  let 
him  look  upon  the  whole  as  a  "  weather-breeder,"  and 
prepare  for  the  impending  storm. 

The  foregoing  remarks  are  intended  merely  as  a 
prelude  to  a  narrative  I  am  about  to  lay  before  the 
public,  of  one  of  the  most  memorable  instances  of  the 
infatuation  of  gain  to  be  found  in  the  whole  history 
of  commerce.  I  allude  to  the  famous  Mississippi 
bubble.  It  is  a  matter  that  has  passed  into  a  proverb, 
and  become  a  phrase  in  every  one's  mouth,  yet  of 
which  not  one  merchant  in  ten  has  probably  a  distinct 
idea.  I  have  therefore  thought  that  an  authentic  ac 
count  of  it  would  be  interesting  and  salutary,  at  the 
present  moment,  when  we  are  suffering  under  the 
effects  of  a  severe  access  of  the  credit  system,  and  just 
recovering  from  one  of  its  ruinous  delusions. 


THE  GREAT  MISSISSIPPI  BUBBLE 

Be  fore  entering  into  the  story  of  this  famous  chimera, 
it  is  proper  to  give  a  few  particulars  concerning  the 
individual  who  engendered  it.  JOHN  LAW  was  born 
in  Edinburgh,  in  1671.  His  father,  William  Law, 
was  a  rich  goldsmith,  and  left  his  son  an  estate  of 
considerable  value,  called  Lauriston,  situated  about 
four  miles  from  Edinburgh.  Goldsmiths,  in  those  days, 
acted  occasionally  as  bankers,  and  his  father's  opera- 


THE  GREAT  MISSISSIPPI  BUBBLE    133 

tions,  under  this  character,  may  have  originally  turned 
the  thoughts  of  the  youth  to  the  science  of  calculation, 
in  which  he  became  an  adept;  so  that  at  an  early  age 
he  excelled  in  playing  at  all  games  of  combination. 

In  1694,  he  appeared  in  London,  where  a  handsome 
person  and  an  easy  and  insinuating  address  gained  him 
currency  in  the  first  circles,  and  the  nickname  of  "  Beau 
Law."  The  same  personal  advantages  gave  him  suc 
cess  in  the  world  of  gallantry,  until  he  became  involved 
in  a  quarrel  with  Beau  Wilson,  his  rival  in  fashion, 
whom  he  killed  in  a  duel,  and  then  fled  to  France  to 
avoid  prosecution. 

He  returned  to  Edinburgh  in  1700,  and  remained 
there  several  years ;  during  which  time  he  first  broached 
his  great  credit  system,  offering  to  supply  the  deficiency 
of  coin  by  the  establishment  of  a  bank,  which,  accord 
ing  to  his  views,  might  emit  a  paper  currency  equivalent 
to  the  whole  landed  estate  of  the  kingdom. 

His  scheme  excited  great  astonishment  in  Edin 
burgh  ;  but,  though  the  government  was  not  sufficiently 
advanced  in  financial  knowledge  to  detect  the  fallacies 
upon  which  it  was  founded,  Scottish  caution  and  sus 
picion  served  in  place  of  wisdom,  and  the  project  was 
rejected.  Law  met  with  no  better  success  with  the 
English  parliament;  and  the  fatal  affair  of  the  death 
of  Wilson  still  hanging  over  him,  for  which  he  had 
never  been  able  to  procure  a  pardon,  he  again  went  to 
France. 

The  financial  affairs  of  France  were  at  this  time  in 
a  deplorable  condition.  The  wars,  the  pomp,  and  pro 
fusion  of  Louis  XIV.,  and  his  religious  persecutions 
of  whole  classes  of  the  most  industrious  of  his  subjects, 
had  exhausted  his  treasury,  and  overwhelmed  the  na 
tion  with  debt.  The  old  monarch  clung  to  his  selfish 
magnificence,  and  could  not  be  induced  to  diminish  his 
enormous  expenditure;  and  his  minister  of  finance 
was  driven  to  his  wits'  end  to  devise  all  kinds  of  dis- 


i34     TIME  OF  UNEXAMPLED  PROSPERITY 

astrous  expedients  to  keep  up  the  royal  state,  and  to 
extricate  the  nation  from  its  embarrassments. 

In  this  state  of  things  Law  ventured  to  bring  for 
ward  his  financial  project.  It  was  founded  on  the  plan 
of  the  bank  of  England,  which  had  already  been  in 
successful  operation  several  years.  He  met  with  im 
mediate  patronage  and  a  congenial  spirit  in  the  Duke 
of  Orleans,  who  had  married  a  natural  daughter  of 
the  king.  The  duke  had  been  astonished  at  the  facility 
with  which  England  had  supported  the  burden  of  a 
public  debt,  created  by  the  wars  of  Anne  and  William, 
and  which  exceeded  in  amount  that  under  which  France 
was  groaning.  The  whole  matter  was  soon  explained 
by  Law  to  his  satisfaction.  The  latter  maintained  that 
England  had  stopped  at  the  mere  threshold  of  an  art 
capable  of  creating  unlimited  sources  of  national 
wealth.  The  duke  was  dazzled  with  his  splendid  views 
and  specious  reasonings,  and  thought  he  clearly  com 
prehended  his  system.  Demarets,  the  Comptroller- 
General  of  Finance,  was  not  so  easily  deceived.  He 
pronounced  the  plan  of  Law  more  pernicious  than  any 
of  the  disastrous  expedients  that  the  government  had 
yet  been  driven  to.  The  old  king  also,  Louis  XIV., 
detested  all  innovations,  especially  those  which  came 
from  a  rival  nation :  the  project  of  a  bank,  therefore, 
was  utterly  rejected. 

Law  remained  for  a  while  in  Paris,  leading  a  gay 
and  affluent  existence,  owing  to  his  handsome  person, 
easy  manners,  flexible  temper,  and  a  faro-bank  which 
he  had  set  up.  His  agreeable  career  was  interrupted 
by  a  message  from  D'Argenson,  Lieutenant-General  of 
Police,  ordering  him  to  quit  Paris,  alleging  that  he 
was  "rather  too  skilful  at  the  game  which  he  had 
introduced! " 

For  several  succeeding  years  he  shifted  his  resi 
dence  from  state  to  state  of  Italy  and  Germany,  offer 
ing  his  scheme  of  finance  to  every  court  that  he  visited, 


THE  GREAT  MISSISSIPPI  BUBBLE    135 

but  without  success.  The  Duke  of  Savoy,  Victor 
Amadeas,  afterward  King  of  Sardinia,  was  much 
struck  with  his  project ;  but  after  considering  it  for  a 
time,  replied,  "  I  am  not  sufficiently  powerful  to  ruin 
myself." 

The  shifting,  adventurous  life  of  Law,  and  the 
equivocal  means  by  which  he  appeared  to  live,  playing 
high,  and  always  with  great  success,  threw  a  cloud  of 
suspicion  over  him  wherever  he  went,  and  caused 
him  to  be  expelled  by  the  magistracy  from  the  semi- 
commercial,  semi-aristocratical  cities  of  Venice  and 
Genoa. 

The  events  of  1715  brought  Law  back  again  to 
Paris.  Louis  XIV.  was  dead.  Louis  XV.  was  a  mere 
child,  and  during  his  minority  the  Duke  of  Orleans 
held  the  reins  of  government  as  Regent.  Law  had  at 
length  found  his  man. 

The  Duke  of  Orleans  has  been  differently  repre 
sented  by  different  contemporaries.  He  appears  to 
have  had  excellent  natural  qualities,  perverted  by  a 
bad  education.  He  was  of  the  middle  size,  easy  and 
graceful,  with  an  agreeable  countenance,  and  open, 
affable  demeanor.  His  mind  was  quick  and  sagacious, 
rather  than  profound;  and  his  quickness  of  intellect 
and  excellence  of  memory  supplied  the  lack  of  studious 
application.  His  wit  was  prompt  and  pungent;  he 
expressed  himself  with  vivacity  and  precision;  his 
imagination  was  vivid,  his  temperament  sanguine  and 
joyous,  his  courage  daring.  His  mother,  the  Duchess 
of  Orleans,  expressed  his  character  in  a  jeu  d'esprit. 
"  The  fairies,"  said  she,  "  were  invited  to  be  present 
at  his  birth,  and  each  one  conferring  a  talent  on  my 
son,  he  possesses  them  all.  Unfortunately,  we  had 
forgotten  to  invite  an  old  fairy,  who,  arriving  after 
all  the  others,  exclaimed,  '  He  shall  have  all  the  talents, 
excepting  that  to  make  good  use  of  them.' ' 

Under  proper  tuition,   the  duke  might  have  risen 


136     TIME  OF  UNEXAMPLED   PROSPERITY 

to  real  greatness;  but  in  his  early  years  he  was  put 
under  the  tutelage  of  the  Abbe  Dubois,  one  of  the  sub 
tlest  and  basest  spirits  that  ever  intrigued  its  way  into 
eminent  place  and  power.  The  Abbe  was  of  low  origin 
and  despicable  exterior,  totally  destitute  of  morals,  and 
prefidious  in  the  extreme ;  but  with  a  supple,  insinuat 
ing  address,  and  an  accommodating  spirit,  tolerant  of 
all  kinds  of  profligacy  in  others.  Conscious  of  his  own 
inherent  baseness,  he  sought  to  secure  an  influence  over 
his  pupil  by  corrupting  his  principles  and  fostering 
his  vices;  he  debased  him,  to  keep  himself  from  being 
despised.  Unfortunately  he  succeeded.  To  the  early 
precepts  of  this  infamous  pander  have  been  attributed 
those  excesses  that  disgrace  the  manhood  of  the  Re 
gent,  and  gave  a  licentious  character  to  his  whole  course 
of  government.  His  love  of  pleasure,  quickened  and 
indulged  by  those  who  should  have  restrained  it,  led 
him  into  all  kinds  of  sensual  indulgence.  He  had  been 
taught  to  think  lightly  of  the  most  serious  duties  and 
sacred  ties,  to  turn  virtue  into  a  jest,  and  consider  re 
ligion  mere  hypocrisy.  He  was  a  gay  misanthrope, 
that  had  a  sovereign  but  sportive  contempt  for  man 
kind;  believed  that  his  most  devoted  servant  would 
be  his  enemy  if  interest  prompted,  and  maintained  that 
an  honest  man  was  he  who  had  the  art  to  conceal  that 
he  was  the  contrary. 

He  surrounded  himself  with  a  set  of  dissolute  men 
like  himself,  who,  let  loose  from  the  restraint  under 
which  they  had  been  held  during  the  latter  hypocritical 
days  of  Louis  XIV.,  now  gave  way  to  every  kind  of 
debauchery.  With  these  men  the  Regent  used  to  shut 
himself  up,  after  the  hours  of  business,  and  excluding 
all  graver  persons  and  graver  concerns,  celebrate  the 
most  drunken  and  disgusting  orgies,  where  obscenity 
and  blasphemy  formed  the  seasoning  of  conversation. 
For  the  profligate  companions  of  these  revels  he  in 
vented  the  appellation  of  his  roues,  the  literal  meaning 


THE  GREAT  MISSISSIPPI  BUBBLE    137 

of  which  is,  men  broken  on  the  wheel;  intended,  no 
doubt,  to  express  their  broken-down  characters  and 
dislocated  fortunes;  although  a  contemporary  asserts 
that  it  designated  the  punishment  that  most  of  them 
merited.  Madame  de  Labran,  who  was  present  at  one 
of  the  Regent's  suppers,  was  disgusted  by  the  conduct 
and  conversation  of  the  host  and  his  guests,  and  ob 
served  at  table,  that  God,  after  he  had  created  man, 
took  the  refuse  clay  that  was  left  and  made  of  it  the 
souls  of  lackeys  and  princes. 

Such  was  the  man  that  now  ruled  the  destinies  of 
France.  Law  found  him  full  of  perplexities  from  the 
disastrous  state  of  the  finances.  He  had  already 
tampered  with  the  coinage,  calling  in  the  coin  of  the 
nation,  restamping  it,  and  issuing  it  at  a  nominal  in 
crease  of  one  fifth,  thus  defrauding  the  nation  out  of 
twenty  per  cent,  of  its  capital.  He  was  not  likely, 
therefore,  to  be  scrupulous  about  any  means  likely  to 
relieve  him  from  financial  difficulties;  he  had  even 
been  led  to  listen  to  the  cruel  alternative  of  a  national 
bankruptcy. 

Under  these  circumstances  Law  confidently  brought 
forward  his  scheme  of  a  bank  that  was  to  pay  off  the 
national  debt,  increase  the  revenue,  and  at  the  same 
time  diminish  the  taxes.  The  following  is  stated  as 
the  theory  by  which  he  recommended  his  system  to  the 
Regent.  The  credit  enjoyed  by  a  banker  or  a  mer 
chant,  he  observed,  increases  his  capital  tenfold;  that 
is  to  say,  he  who  has  a  capital  of  one  hundred  thousand 
livres,  may,  if  he  possess  sufficient  credit,  extend  his 
operations  to  a  million,  and  reap  profits  to  that  amount. 
In  like  manner,  a  state  that  can  collect  into  a  bank  all 
the  current  coin  of  the  kingdom,  would  be  as  powerful 
as  if  its  capital  were  increased  tenfold.  The  specie 
must  be  drawn  into  the  bank,  not  by  way  of  loan,  or 
by  taxations,  but  in  the  way  of  deposit.  This  might  be 
effected  in  different  modes,  either  by  inspiring  con- 


i38     TIME  OF  UNEXAMPLED  PROSPERITY 

fidence,  or  by  exerting  authority.  One  mode,  he  ob 
served,  had  already  been  in  use.  Each  time  that  a 
state  makes  a  recoinage,  it  becomes  momentarily  the 
depository  of  all  the  money  called  in  belonging  to  the 
subjects  of  that  state.  His  bank  was  to  effect  the  same 
purpose;  that  is  to  say,  to  receive  in  deposit  all  the 
coin  of  the  kingdom,  but  to  give  in  exchange  its  bills, 
which,  being  of  an  invariable  value,  bearing  an  interest, 
and  being  payable  on  demand,  would  not  only  supply 
the  place  of  coin,  but  prove  a  better  and  more  profit 
able  currency. 

The  Regent  caught  with  avidity  at  the  scheme.  It 
suited  his  bold,  reckless  spirit  and  his  grasping  ex 
travagance.  Not  that  he  was  altogether  the  dupe  of 
Law's  specious  projects;  still  he  was  apt,  like  many 
other  men  unskilled  in  the  arcana  of  finance,  to  mis 
take  the  multiplication  of  money  for  the  multiplication 
of  wealth,  not  understanding  that  it  was  a  mere  agent 
or  instrument  in  the  interchange  of  traffic,  to  represent 
the  value  of  the  various  productions  of  industry ;  and 
that  an  increased  circulation  of  coin  or  bank-bills,  in 
the  shape  of  currency,  only  adds  a  proportionably  in 
creased  and  fictitious  value  to  such  productions.  Law 
enlisted  the  vanity  of  the  Regent  in  his  cause.  He  per 
suaded  him  that  he  saw  more  clearly  than  others  into 
sublime  theories  of  finance,  which  were  quite  above 
the  ordinary  apprehension.  He  used  to  declare  that, 
excepting  the  Regent  and  the  Duke  of  Savoy,  no  one 
had  thoroughly  comprehended  his  system. 

It  is  certain  that  it  met  with  strong  opposition  from 
the  Regent's  ministers,  the  Duke  de  Noailles  and  the 
Chancellor  d'Anguesseau,  and  it  was  no  less  strenu 
ously  opposed  by  the  parliament  of  Paris.  Law,  how 
ever,  had  a  potent  though  secret  coadjutor  in  the 
Abb£  Dubois,  now  rising,  during  the  regency,  into 
great  political  power,  and  who  retained  a  baneful  in 
fluence  over  the  mind  of  the  Regent.  This  wily  priest, 


THE  GREAT  MISSISSIPPI  BUBBLE    139 

as  avaricious  as  he  was  ambitious,  drew  large  sums 
from  Law  as  subsidies,  and  aided  him  greatly  in  many 
of  his  most  pernicious  operations.  He  aided  him,  in 
the  present  instance,  to  fortify  the  mind  of  the  Regent 
against  all  the  remonstrances  of  his  ministers  and  the 
parliament. 

Accordingly,  on  the  2d  of  May,  1716,  letters  patent 
were  granted  to  Law  to  establish  a  bank  of  deposit, 
discount,  and  circulation,  under  the  firm  of  "  Law  and 
Company,"  to  continue  for  twenty  years.  The  capital 
was  fixed  at  six  millions  of  livres,  divided  into  shares 
of  five  hundred  livres  each,  which  were  to  be  sold  for 
twenty-five  per  cent,  of  the  Regent's  debased  coin,  and 
seventy-five  per  cent,  of  the  public  securities,  which 
were  then  at  a  great  reduction  from  their  nominal 
value,  and  which  then  amounted  to  nineteen  hundred 
millions.  The  ostensible  object  of  the  bank,  as  set 
forth  in  the  patent,  was  to  encourage  the  commerce 
and  manufactures  of  France.  The  louis-d'ors  and 
crowns  of  the  bank  were  always  to  retain  the  same 
standard  of  value,  and  its  bills  to  be  payable  in  them 
on  demand. 

At  the  outset,  while  the  bank  was  limited  in  its  opera 
tions,  and  while  its  paper  really  represented  the  specie 
in  its  vaults,  it  seemed  to  realize  all  that  had  been 
promised  from  it.  It  rapidly  acquired  public  con 
fidence  and  an  extended  circulation,  and  produced  an 
activity  in  commerce  unknown  under  the  baneful  gov 
ernment  of  Louis  XIV.  As  the  bills  of  the  bank  bore 
an  interest,  and  as  it  was  stipulated  they  would  be  of 
invariable  value,  and  as  hints  had  been  artfully  circu 
lated  that  the  coin  would  experience  successive  diminu 
tion,  everybody  hastened  to  the  bank  to  exchange  gold 
and  silver  for  paper.  So  great  became  the  throng  of 
depositors,  and  so  intense  their  eagerness,  that  there 
was  quite  a  press  and  struggle  at  the  back  door,  and  a 
ludicrous  panic  was  awakened,  as  if  there  was  danger 


140     TIME  OF  UNEXAMPLED  PROSPERITY 

of  their  not  being  admitted.  An  anecdote  of  the  time 
relates  that  one  of  the  clerks,  with  an  ominous  smile, 
called  out  to  the  struggling  multitude,  "  Have  a  little 
patience,  my  friends;  we  mean  to  take  all  your 
money " ;  an  assertion  disastrously  verified  in  the 
sequel. 

Thus  by  the  simple  establishment  of  a  bank,  Law 
and  the  Regent  obtained  pledges  of  confidence  for 
the  consummation  of  farther  and  more  complicated 
schemes,  as  yet  hidden  from  the  public.  In  a  little 
while  the  bank  shares  rose  enormously,  and  the  amount 
of  its  notes  in  circulation  exceeded  one  hundred  and 
ten  millions  of  livres.  A  subtle  stroke  of  policy  had 
rendered  it  popular  with  the  aristocracy.  Louis  XIV. 
had,  several  years  previously,  imposed  an  income  tax 
of  a  tenth,  giving  his  royal  word  that  it  should  cease 
in  1717.  This  tax  had  been  exceedingly  irksome  to 
the  privileged  orders;  and,  in  the  present  disastrous 
times,  they  had  dreaded  an  augmentation  of  it.  In 
consequence  of  the  successful  operation  of  Law's 
scheme,  however,  the  tax  was  abolished,  and  now  noth 
ing  was  to  be  heard  among  the  nobility  and  clergy  but 
praises  of  the  Regent  and  the  bank. 

Hitherto  all  had  gone  well,  and  all  might  have  con 
tinued  to  go  well,  had  not  the  paper  system  been  farther 
expanded.  But  Law  had  yet  the  grandest  part  of  his 
scheme  to  develop.  He  had  to  open  his  ideal  world  of 
speculation,  his  El  Dorado  of  unbounded  wealth.  The 
English  had  brought  the  vast  imaginary  commerce  of 
the  South  Seas  in  aid  of  their  banking  operations. 
Law  sought  to  bring,  as  an  immense  auxiliary  of  his 
bank,  the  whole  trade  of  the  Mississippi.  Under  this 
name  was  included  not  merely  the  river  so  called,  but 
the  vast  region  known  as  Louisiana,  extending  from 
north  latitude  29°  up  to  .Canada  in  north  latitude  40°. 
This  country  had  been  granted  by  Louis  XIV.  to  the 
Sieur  Crozat,  but  he  had  been  induced  to  resign  his 


THE  GREAT  MISSISSIPPI  BUBBLE    141 

patent.  In  conformity  to  the  plea  of  Mr.  Law,  letters 
patent  were  granted  in  August,  in  1717,  for  the  crea 
tion  of  a  commercial  company,  which  was  to  have  the 
colonizing  of  this  country,  and  the  monopoly  of  its 
trade  and  resources,  and  of  the  beaver  or  fur  trade 
with  Canada.  It  was  called  the  Western,  but  be 
came  better  known  as  the  Mississippi  Company.  The 
capital  was  fixed  at  one  hundred  millions  of  livres, 
divided  into  shares,  bearing  an  interest  of  four  per 
cent.,  which  were  subscribed  for  in  the  public  secur 
ities.  As  the  bank  was  to  cooperate  with  the  company, 
the  Regent  ordered  that  its  bills  should  be  received  the 
same  as  coin,  in  all  payments  of  the  public  revenue. 
Law  was  appointed  chief  director  of  this  company, 
which  was  an  exact  copy  of  the  Earl  of  Oxford's  South 
Sea  Company,  set  on  foot  in  1711,  and  which  dis 
tracted  all  England  with  the  frenzy  of  speculation.  In 
like  manner  with  the  delusive  picturings  given  in  that 
memorable  scheme  of  the  sources  of  rich  trade  to  be 
opened  in  the  South  Sea  countries,  Law  held  forth 
magnificent  prospects  of  the  fortunes  to  be  made  in 
colonizing  Louisiana,  which  was  represented  as  a  veri 
table  land  of  promise,  capable  of  yielding  every  variety 
of  the  most  precious  produce.  Reports,  too,  were  art 
fully  circulated,  with  great  mystery,  as  if  to  the  "  cho 
sen  few,"  of  mines  of  gold  and  silver  recently  dis 
covered  in  Louisiana,  and  which  would  insure  instant 
wealth  to  the  early  purchasers.  These  confidential 
whispers,  of  course,  soon  became  public;  and  were 
confirmed  by  travellers  fresh  from  the  Mississippi,  and 
doubtless  bribed,  who  had  seen  the  mines  in  question, 
and  declared  them  superior  in  richness  to  those  of 
Mexico  and  Peru.  Nay  more,  ocular  proof  was  fur 
nished  to  public  credulity,  in  ingots  of  gold,  conveyed 
to  the  mint,  as  if  just  brought  from  the  mines  of 
Louisiana. 

Extraordinary  measures  were  adopted  to   force  a 


142     TIME  OF  UNEXAMPLED  PROSPERITY 

colonization.  An  edict  was  issued  to  collect  and  trans 
port  settlers  to  the  Mississippi.  The  police  lent  its  aid. 
The  streets  and  prisons  of  Paris,  and  of  the  provin 
cial  cities,  were  swept  of  mendicants  and  vagabonds  of 
all  kinds,  who  were  conveyed  to  Havre  de  Grace. 
About  six  thousand  were  crowded  into  ships,  where  no 
precautions  had  been  taken  for  their  health  or  accom 
modation.  Instruments  of  all  kinds  proper  for  the 
working  of  mines  were  ostentatiously  paraded  in 
public,  and  put  on  board  the  vessels;  and  the 
whole  set  sail  for  this  fabled  El  Dorado,  which  was 
to  prove  the  grave  of  the  greater  part  of  its  wretched 
colonists. 

D'Anguesseau,  the  chancellor,  a  man  of  probity  and 
integrity,  still  lifted  his  voice  against  the  paper  system 
of  Law,  and  his  project  of  colonization,  and  was  elo 
quent  and  prophetic  in  picturing  the  evils  they  were 
calculated  to  produce;  the  private  distress  and  public 
degradation;  the  corruption  of  morals  and  manners; 
the  triumph  of  knaves  and  schemers;  the  ruin  of  for 
tunes,  and  the  downfall  of  families.  He  was  incited 
more  and  more  to  this  opposition  by  the  Duke  de 
Noailles,  the  Minister  of  Finance,  who  was  jealous  of 
the  growing  ascendency  of  Law  over  the  mind  of  the 
Regent,  but  was  less  honest  than  the  chancellor  in  his 
opposition.  The  Regent  was  excessively  annoyed  by 
the  difficulties  they  conjured  up  in  the  way  of  his  dar 
ling  schemes  of  finance,  and  the  countenance  they  gave 
to  the  opposition  of  parliament ;  which  body,  disgusted 
more  and  more  with  the  abuses  of  the  regency,  and  the 
system  of  Law,  had  gone  so  far  as  to  carry  its  remon 
strances  to  the  very  foot  of  the  throne. 

He  determined  to  relieve  himself  from  these  two 
ministers,  who,  either  through  honesty  or  policy,  inter 
fered  with  all  his  plans.  Accordingly,  on  the  28th  of 
January,  1718,  he  dismissed  the  chancellor  from  office, 
and  exiled  him  to  his  estate  in  the  country ;  and  shortly 


H3 

afterward  removed  the  Duke  de  Noailles  from  the  ad 
ministration  of  the  finance. 

The  opposition  of  parliament  to  the  Regent  and  his 
measures  was  carried  on  with  increasing  violence. 
That  body  aspired  to  an  equal  authority  with  the  Re 
gent  in  the  administration  of  affairs,  and  pretended, 
by  its  decree,  to  suspend  an  edict  of  the  regency  order 
ing  a  new  coinage,  and  altering  the  value  of  the  cur 
rency.  But  its  chief  hostility  was  levelled  against 
Law,  a  foreigner  and  a  heretic,  and  one  who  was  con 
sidered  by  a  majority  of  the  members  in  the  light  of 
a  malefactor.  In  fact,  so  far  was  this  hostility  carried, 
that  secret  measures  were  taken  to  investigate  his  mal 
versations,  and  to  collect  evidence  against  him;  and  it 
was  resolved  in  parliament  that,  should  the  testimony 
collected  justify  their  suspicions,  they  would  have  him 
seized  and  brought  before  them;  would  give  him  a 
brief  trial,  and,  if  convicted,  would  hang  him  in  the 
court-yard  of  the  palace,  and  throw  open  the  gates 
after  the  execution,  that  the  public  might  behold  his 
corpse ! 

Law  received  intimation  of  the  danger  hanging  over 
him,  and  was  in  terrible  trepidation.  He  took  refuge 
in  the  Palais  Royal,  the  residence  of  the  Regent,  and 
implored  his  protection.  The  Regent  himself  was  em 
barrassed  by  the  sturdy  opposition  of  parliament, 
which  contemplated  nothing  less  than  a  decree  revers 
ing  most  of  his  public  measures,  especially  those  of 
finance.  His  indecision  kept  Law  for  a  time  in  an 
agony  of  terror  and  suspense.  Finally,  by  assembling 
a  board  of  justice,  and  bringing  to  his  aid  the  absolute 
authority  of  the  king,  he  triumphed  over  parliament, 
and  relieved  Law  from  his  dread  of  being  hanged. 

The  system  now  went  on  with  flowing  sail.  The 
Western,  or  Mississippi  Company,  being  identified  with 
the  bank,  rapidly  increased  in  power  and  privileges. 
One  monopoly  after  another  was  granted  to  it,  —  the 


144     TIME  OF  UNEXAMPLED  PROSPERITY 

trade  of  the  Indian  Seas,  the  slave-trade  with  Senegal 
and  Guinea,  the  farming  of  tobacco,  the  national  coin 
age,  etc.  Each  new  privilege  was  made  a  pretext  for 
issuing  more  bills,  and  caused  an  immense  advance  in 
the  price  of  stock.  At  length,  on  the  4th  of  December, 
1718,  the  Regent  gave  the  establishment  the  imposing 
title  of  the  Royal  Bank,  and  proclaimed  that  he  had 
effected  the  purchase  of  all  the  shares,  the  proceeds 
of  which  he  had  added  to  its  capital.  This  measure 
seemed  to  shock  the  public  feeling  more  than  any  other 
connected  with  the  system,  and  roused  the  indignation 
of  parliament.  The  French  nation  had  been  so  accus 
tomed  to  attach  an  idea  of  everything  noble,  lofty,  and 
magnificent,  to  the  royal  name  and  person,  especially 
during  the  stately  and  sumptuous  reign  of  Louis  XIV., 
that  they  could  not  at  first  tolerate  the  idea  of  royalty 
being  in  any  degree  mingled  with  matters  of  traffic  and 
finance,  and  the  king  being,  in  a  manner,  a  banker. 
It  was  one  of  the  downward  steps,  however,  by  which 
royalty  lost  its  illusive  splendor  in  France  and  became 
gradually  cheapened  in  the  public  mind. 

Arbitrary  measures  now  began  to  be  taken  to  force 
the  bills  of  the  bank  into  artificial  currency.  On  the 
27th  of  December  appeared  an  order  in  council,  forbid 
ding,  under  severe  penalties,  the  payment  of  any  sum 
above  six  hundred  livres  in  gold  or  silver.  This  decree 
rendered  bank-bills  necessary  in  all  transactions  of 
purchase  and  sale,  and  called  for  a  new  emission.  The 
prohibition  was  occasionally  evaded  or  opposed;  con 
fiscations  were  the  consequence;  informers  were  re 
warded,  and  spies  and  traitors  began  to  spring  up  in 
all  the  domestic  walks  of  life. 

The  worst  effect  of  this  illusive  system  was  the  mania 
for  gain,  or  rather  for  gambling  in  stocks,  that  now 
seized  upon  the  whole  nation.  Under  the  exciting 
effects  of  lying  reports,  and  the  forcing  effects  of  gov 
ernment  decrees,  the  shares  of  the  company  went  on 


THE  GREAT  MISSISSIPPI  BUBBLE    145 

rising  in  value,  until  they  reached  thirteen  hundred 
per  cent.  Nothing  was  now  spoken  of  but  the  price  of 
shares,  and  the  immense  fortunes  suddenly  made  by 
lucky  speculators.  Those  whom  Law  had  deluded  used 
every  means  to  delude  others.  The  most  extravagant 
dreams  were  indulged  concerning  the  wealth  to  flow 
in  upon  the  company  from  its  colonies,  its  trade,  and 
its  various  monopolies.  It  is  true  nothing  as  yet  had 
been  realized,  nor  could  in  some  time  be  realized,  from 
these  distant  sources,  even  if  productive ;  but  the  imag 
inations  of  speculators  are  ever  in  the  advance,  and 
their  conjectures  are  immediately  converted  into  facts. 
Lying  reports  now  flew  from  mouth  to  mouth,  of  sure 
avenues  to  fortune  suddenly  thrown  open.  The  more 
extravagant  the  fable,  the  more  readily  was  it  believed. 
To  doubt,  was  to  awaken  anger  or  incur  ridicule.  In 
a  time  of  public  infatuation  it  requires  no  small  exer 
cise  of  courage  to  doubt  a  popular  fallacy. 

Paris  now  became  the  centre  of  attraction  for  the 
adventurous  and  the  avaricious,  who  flocked  to  it  not 
merely  from  the  provinces,  but  from  neighboring  coun 
tries.  A  stock  exchange  was  established  in  a  house 
in  the  Rue  Quincampoix,  and  became  immediately 
the  gathering-place  of  stock-jobbers.  The  exchange 
opened  at  seven  o'clock  with  the  beat  of  drum  and 
sound  of  bell,  and  closed  at  night  with  the  same  sig 
nals.  Guards  were  stationed  at  each  end  of  the  street, 
to  maintain  order  and  exclude  carriages  and  horses. 
The  whole  street  swarmed  throughout  the  day  like  a 
beehive.  Bargains  of  all  kinds  were  seized  upon  with 
avidity.  Shares  of  stock  passed  from  hand  to  hand, 
mounting  in  value,  one  knew  not  why.  Fortunes  were 
made  in  a  moment,  as  if  by  magic;  and  every  lucky 
bargain  prompted  those  around  to  a  more  desperate 
throw  of  the  dice.  The  fever  went  on,  increasing  in 
intensity  as  the  day  declined ;  and  when  the  drum  beat 
and  the  bell  rang  at  night,  to  close  the  exchange,  there 


146     TIME  OF  UNEXAMPLED  PROSPERITY 

were  exclamations  of  impatience  and  despair,  as  if  the 
wheel  of  fortune  had  suddenly  been  stopped,  when 
about  to  make  its  luckiest  evolution. 

To  ingulf  all  classes  in  this  ruinous  vortex,  Law  now 
split  the  shares  of  fifty  millions  of  stock  each  into  one 
hundred  shares;  thus,  as  in  the  splitting  of  lottery 
tickets,  accommodating-  the  venture  to  the  humblest 
purse.  Society  was  thus  stirred  up  to  its  very  dregs, 
and  adventurers  of  the  lowest  order  hurried  to  the 
stock-market.  All  honest,  industrious  pursuits  and 
modest  gains  were  now  despised.  Wealth  was  to  be 
obtained  instantly,  without  labor  and  without  stint. 
The  upper  classes  were  as  base  in  their  venality  as  the 
lower.  The  highest  and  most  powerful  nobles,  aban 
doning  all  generous  pursuits  and  lofty  aims,  engaged 
in  the  vile  scuffle  for  gain.  They  were  even  baser  than 
the  lower  classes ;  for  some  of  them,  who  were  mem 
bers  of  the  council  of  the  regency,  abused  their  station 
and  their  influence,  and  promoted  measures  by  which 
shares  rose  while  in  their  hands,  and  they  made  im 
mense  profits. 

The  Duke  de  Bourbon,  the  Prince  of  Conti,  the 
Dukes  de  la  Force  and  D'Antin,  were  among  the  fore 
most  of  these  illustrious  stock-jobbers.  They  were 
nicknamed  the  Mississippi  Lords,  and  they  smiled  at 
the  sneering  title.  In  fact,  the  usual  distinctions  of 
society  had  lost  their  consequence,  under  the  reign  of 
this  new  passion.  Rank,  talent,  military  fame,  no 
longer  inspired  deference.  All  respect  for  others,  all 
self-respect,  were  forgotten  in  the  mercenary  struggle 
of  the  stock-market.  Even  prelates  and  ecclesiastical 
corporations,  forgetting  their  true  objects  of  devotion, 
mingled  among  the  votaries  of  Mammon.  They  were 
not  behind  those  who  wielded  the  civil  power  in  fabri 
cating  ordinances  suited  to  their  avaricious  purposes. 
Theological  decisions  forthwith  appeared,  in  which  the 
anathema  launched  by  the  Church  against  usury  was 


THE  GREAT  MISSISSIPPI  BUBBLE    147 

conveniently  construed  as  not  extending  to  the  traffic 
in  bank  shares! 

The  Abbe  Dubois  entered  into  the  mysteries  of  stock 
jobbing  with  all  the  zeal  of  an  apostle,  and  enriched 
himself  by  the  spoils  of  the  credulous;  and  he  con 
tinually  drew  large  sums  from  Law,  as  considerations 
for  his  political  influence.  Faithless  to  his  country,  in 
the  course  of  his  gambling  speculations  he  transferred 
to  England  a  great  amount  of  specie,  which  had  been 
paid  into  the  royal  treasury;  thus  contributing  to  the 
subsequent  dearth  of  the  precious  metals. 

The  female  sex  participated  in  this  sordid  frenzy. 
Princesses  of  the  blood,  and  ladies  of  the  highest  nobil 
ity,  were  among  the  most  rapacious  of  stock-jobbers. 
The  Regent  seemed  to  have  the  riches  of  Croesus  at  his 
command,  and  lavished  money  by  hundreds  of  thou 
sands  upon  his  female  relatives  and  favorites,  as  well 
as  upon  his  roues,  the  dissolute  companions  of  his  de 
bauches.  "  My  son,"  writes  the  Regent's  mother,  in 
her  correspondence,  "  gave  me  shares  to  the  amount 
of  two  millions,  which  I  distributed  among  my  house 
hold.  The  king  also  took  several  millions  for  his  own 
household.  All  the  royal  family  have  had  them;  all 
the  children  and  grandchildren  of  France,  and  the 
princes  of  the  blood." 

Luxury  and  extravagance  kept  pace  with  this  sud 
den  inflation  of  fancied  wealth.  The  hereditary  pal 
aces  of  nobles  were  pulled  down,  and  rebuilt  on  a 'scale 
of  augmented  splendor.  Entertainments  were  given, 
of  incredible  cost  and  magnificence.  Never  before  had 
been  such  display  in  houses,  furniture,  equipages,  and 
amusements.  This  was  particularly  the  case  among 
persons  of  the  lower  ranks,  who  had  suddenly  become 
possessed  of  millions.  Ludicrous  anecdotes  are  related 
of  some  of  these  upstarts.  One,  who  had  just  launched 
a  splendid  carriage,  when  about  to  use  it  for  the  first 
time,  instead  of  getting  in  at  the  door,  mounted, 


148     TIME  OF  UNEXAMPLED   PROSPERITY 

through  habitude,  to  his  accustomed  place  behind. 
Some  ladies  of  quality,  seeing  a  well-dressed  woman 
covered  with  diamonds,  but  whom  nobody  knew,  alight 
from  a  very  handsome  carriage,  inquired  who  she 
was,  of  the  footman.  He  replied,  with  a  sneer,  "  It 
is  a  lady  who  has  recently  tumbled  from  a  garret  into 
this  carriage."  Mr.  Law's  domestics  were  said  to  be 
come  in  like  manner  suddenly  enriched  by  the  crumbs 
that  fell  from  his  table.  His  coachman,  having  made 
a  fortune,  retired  from  his  service.  Mr.  Law  requested 
him  to  procure  a  coachman  in  his  place.  He  appeared 
the  next  day  with  two,  whom  he  pronounced  equally 
good,  and  told  Mr.  Law,  "  Take  which  of  them  you 
choose,  and  I  will  take  the  other !  " 

Nor  were  these  novi  homini  treated  with  the  dis 
tance  and  disdain  they  would  formerly  have  experi 
enced  from  the  haughty  aristocracy  of  France.  The 
pride  of  the  old  noblesse  had  been  stifled  by  the  stronger 
instinct  of  avarice.  They  rather  sought  the  intimacy 
and  confidence  of  these  lucky  upstarts ;  and  it  has  been 
observed  that  a  nobleman  would  gladly  take  his  seat 
at  the  table  of  the  fortunate  lackey  of  yesterday,  in 
hopes  of  learning  from  him  the  secret  of  growing  rich  ! 

Law  now  went  about  with  a  countenance  radiant 
with  success,  and  apparently  dispensing  wealth  on 
every  side.  "  He  is  admirably  skilled  in  all  that  relates 
to  finance,"  writes  the  Duchess  of  Orleans,  the  Regent's 
mother,  "  and  has  put  the  affairs  of  the  state  in  such 
good  order,  that  all  the  king's  debts  have  been  paid. 
He  is  so  much  run  after,  that  he  has  no  repose  night 
or  day.  A  duchess  even  kissed  his  hand  publicly.  If 
a  duchess  can  do  this,  what  will  other  ladies  do !  " 

Wherever  he  went,  his  path,  we  are  told,  was  beset 
by  a  sordid  throng,  who  waited  to  see  him  pass,  and 
sought  to  obtain  the  favor  of  a  word,  a  nod,  or  smile, 
as  if  a  mere  glance  from  him  would  bestow  fortune. 
When  at  home  his  house  was  absolutely  besieged  by 


THE  GREAT  MISSISSIPPI  BUBBLE    149 

furious  candidates  for  fortune.  "  They  forced  the 
doors,"  says  the  Duke  de  St.  Simon ;  "  they  scaled  his 
windows  from  the  garden;  they  made  their  way  into 
his  cabinet  down  the  chimney !  " 

The  same  venal  court  was  paid  by  all  classes  to  his 
family.  The  highest  ladies  of  the  court  vied  with  each 
other  in  meannesses,  to  purchase  the  lucrative  friend 
ship  of  Mrs.  Law  and  her  daughter.  They  waited 
upon  them  with  as  much  assiduity  and  adulation  as  if 
they  had  been  princesses  of  the  blood.  The  Regent 
one  day  expressed  a  desire  that  some  duchess  should 
accompany  his  daughter  to  Genoa.  "  My  Lord,"  said 
some  one  present,  "  if  you  would  have  a  choice  from 
among  the  duchesses,  you  need  but  send  to  Mrs.  Law's ; 
you  will  find  them  all  assembled  there." 

The  wealth  of  Law  rapidly  increased  with  the  ex 
pansion  of  the  bubble.  In  the  course  of  a  few  months 
he  purchased  fourteen  titled  estates,  paying  for  them 
in  paper;  and  the  public  hailed  these  sudden  and  vast 
acquisitions  of  landed  property,  as  so  many  proofs  of 
the  soundness  of  his  system.  In  one  instance  he  met 
with  a  shrewd  bargainer,  who  had  not  the  general 
faith  in  his  paper  money.  The  President  de  Novion 
insisted  on  being  paid  for  an  estate  in  hard  coin.  Law 
accordingly  brought  the  amount,  four  hundred  thou 
sand  livres,  in  specie,  saying,  with  a  sarcastic  smile, 
that  he  preferred  paying  in  money,  as  its  weight  ren 
dered  it  a  mere  incumbrance.  As  it  happened,  the 
President  could  give  no  clear  title  to  the  land,  and  the 
money  had  to  be  refunded.  He  paid  it  back  in  paper, 
which  Law  dared  not  refuse,  lest  he  should  depreciate 
it  in  the  market ! 

The  course  of  illusory  credit  went  on  triumphantly 
for  eighteen  months.  Law  had  nearly  fulfilled  one  of 
his  promises,  for  the  greater  part  of  the  public  debt 
had  been  paid  off;  but  how  paid?  In  bank  shares, 
which  had  been  trumped  up  several  hundred  per  cent. 


150     TIME  OF  UNEXAMPLED  PROSPERITY 

above  their  value,  and  which  were  to  vanish  like  smoke 
in  the  hands  of  the  holders. 

One  of  the  most  striking  attributes  of  Law,  was  the 
imperturbable  assurance  and  self-possession  with  which 
he  replied  to  every  objection  and  found  a  solution  for 
every  problem.  He  had  the  dexterity  of  a  juggler  in 
evading  difficulties;  and  what  was  peculiar,  made  fig 
ures  themselves,  which  are  the  very  elements  of  exact 
demonstration,  the  means  to  dazzle  and  bewilder. 

Toward  the  latter  end  of  1719  the  Mississippi 
scheme  had  reached  its  highest  point  of  glory.  Half 
a  million  of  strangers  had  crowded  into  Paris,  in  quest 
of  fortune.  The  hotels  and  lodging-houses  were  over 
flowing;  lodgings  were  procured  with  excessive  diffi 
culty;  granaries  were  turned  into  bedrooms;  provi 
sions  had  risen  enormously  in  price;  splendid  houses 
were  multiplying  on  every  side;  the  streets  were 
crowded  with  carriages;  above  a  thousand  new  equi 
pages  had  been  launched. 

On  the  eleventh  of  December  Law  obtained  another 
prohibitory  decree,  for  the  purpose  of  sweeping  all  the 
remaining  specie  in  circulation  into  the  bank.  By  this 
it  was  forbidden  to  make  any  payments  in  silver  above 
ten  livres,  or  in  gold  above  three  hundred. 

The  repeated  decrees  of  this  nature,  the  object  of 
which  was  to  depreciate  the  value  of  gold  and  increase 
the  illusive  credit  of  paper,  began  to  awaken  doubts 
of  a  system  which  required  such  bolstering.  Capital 
ists  gradually  awoke  from  their  bewilderment.  Sound 
and  able  financiers  consulted  together,  and  agreed  to 
make  common  cause  against  this  continual  expansion 
of  a  paper  system.  The  shares  of  the  bank  and  of  the 
company  began  to  decline  in  value.  Wary  men  took 
the  alarm,  and  began  to  realise,  a  word  now  first 
brought  into  use,  to  express  the  conversion  of  ideal 
property  into  something  real. 

The  Prince  of  Conti,  one  of  the  most  prominent  and 


THE  GREAT  MISSISSIPPI  BUBBLE    151 

grasping  of  the  Mississippi  Lords,  was  the  first  to  give 
a  blow  to  the  credit  of  the  bank.  There  was  a  mixture 
of  ingratitude  in  his  conduct  that  characterized  the 
venal  baseness  of  the  times.  He  had  received,  from 
time  to  time,  enormous  sums  from  Law,  as  the  price 
of  his  influence  and  patronage.  His  avarice  had  in 
creased  with  every  acquisition,  until  Law  was  com 
pelled  to  refuse  one  of  his  exactions.  In  revenge,  the 
prince  immediately  sent  such  an  amount  of  paper  to 
the  bank  to  be  cashed,  that  it  required  four  wagons 
to  bring  away  the  silver,  and  he  had  the  meanness  to 
loll  out  of  the  window  of  his  hotel,  and  jest  and  exult, 
as  it  was  trundled  into  his  porte-cochere. 

This  was  the  signal  for  other  drains  of  like  nature. 
The  English  and  Dutch  merchants,  who  had  purchased 
a  great  amount  of  bank  paper  at  low  prices,  cashed 
them  at  the  bank,  and  carried  the  money  out  of  the 
country.  Other  strangers  did  the  like,  thus  draining 
the  kingdom  of  its  specie,  and  leaving  paper  in  its 
place. 

The  Regent,  perceiving  these  symptoms  of  decay  in 
the  system,  sought  to  restore  it  to  public  confidence  by 
conferring  marks  of  confidence  upon  its  author.  He 
accordingly  resolved  to  make  Law  Comptroller-General 
of  the  Finances  of  France.  There  was  a  material 
obstacle  in  the  way*  Law  was  a  Protestant,  and  the 
Regent,  unscrupulous  as  he  was  himself,  did  not  dare 
publicly  to  outrage  the  severe  edicts  which  Louis  XIV., 
in  his  bigot  days,  had  fulminated  against  all  heretics. 
Law  soon  let  him  know  that  there  would  be  no  diffi 
culty  on  that  head.  He  was  ready  at  any  moment  to 
abjure  his  religion  in  the  way  of  business.  For  de 
cency's  sake,  however,  it  was  judged  proper  he  should 
previously  be  convinced  and  converted.  A  ghostly 
instructor  was  soon  found  ready  to  accomplish  his 
conversion  in  the  shortest  possible  time.  This  was  the 
Abbe  Tencin,  a  profligate  creature  of  the  profligate 


152     TIME  OF  UNEXAMPLED  PROSPERITY 

Dubois,  and  like  him  working  his  way  to  ecclesiastical 
promotion  and  temporal  wealth  by  the  basest  means. 

Under  the  instructions  of  the  Abbe  Tencin,  Law 
soon  mastered  the  mysteries  and  dogmas  of  the  Cath 
olic  doctrine;  and,  after  a  brief  course  of  ghostly 
training,  declared  himself  thoroughly  convinced  and 
converted.  To  avoid  the  sneers  and  jests  of  the 
Parisian  public,  the  ceremony  of  abjuration  took  place 
at  Melun.  Law  made  a  pious  present  of  one  hun 
dred  thousand  livres  to  the  Church  of  St.  Roque, 
and  the  Abbe  Tencin  was  rewarded  for  his  edify 
ing  labors  by  sundry  shares  and  bank-bills,  which 
he  shrewdly  took  care  to  convert  into  cash,  having  as 
little  faith  in  the  system  as  in  the  piety  of  his  new 
convert.  A  more  grave  and  moral  community  might 
have  been  outraged  by  this  scandalous  farce;  but  the 
Parisians  laughed  at  it  with  their  usual  levity,  and  con 
tented  themselves  with  making  it  the  subject  of  a  num 
ber  of  songs  and  epigrams. 

Law  being  now  orthodox  in  his  faith,  took  out  let 
ters  of  naturalization,  and  having  thus  surmounted  the 
intervening  obstacles,  was  elevated  by  the  Regent  to 
the  post  of  Comptroller-General.  So  accustomed  had 
the  community  become  to  all  juggles  and  transmuta 
tions  in  this  hero  of  finance,  that  no  one  seemed 
shocked  or  astonished  at  his  sudden  elevation.  On  the 
contrary,  being  now  considered  perfectly  established  in 
place  and  power,  he  became  more  than  ever  the  object 
of  venal  adoration.  Men  of  rank  and  dignity  thronged 
his  antechamber,  waiting  patiently  their  turn  for  an 
audience;  and  titled  dames  demeaned  themselves  to 
take  the  front  seats  of  the  carriages  of  his  wife  and 
daughter,  as  if  they  had  been  riding  with  princesses  of 
the  blood  royal.  Law's  head  grew  giddy  with  his  ele 
vation,  and  he  began  to  aspire  after  aristocratical  dis 
tinction.  There  was  to  be  a  court  ball,  at  which  several 
of  the  young  noblemen  were  to  dance  in  a  ballet  with 


THE  GREAT  MISSISSIPPI  BUBBLE    153 

the  youthful  king.  Law  requested  that  his  son  might 
be  admitted  into  the  ballet,  and  the  Regent  consented. 
The  young  scions  of  nobility,  however,  were  indignant, 
and  scouted  the  "  intruding  upstart."  Their  more 
worldly  parents,  fearful  of  displeasing  the  modern 
Midas,  reprimanded  them  in  vain.  The  striplings  had 
not  yet  imbibed  the  passion  for  gain,  and  still  held  to 
their  high  blood.  The  son  of  the  banker  received 
slights  and  annoyances  on  all  sides,  and  the  public 
applauded  them  for  their  spirit.  A  fit  of  illness  came 
opportunely  to  relieve  the  youth  from  an  honor 
which  would  have  cost  him  a  world  of  vexations  and 
affronts. 

In  February,  1720,  shortly  after  Law's  instalment 
in  office,  a  decree  came  out  uniting  the  bank  to  the 
India  Company,  by  which  last  name  the  whole  estab 
lishment  was  now  known.  The  decree  stated,  that,  as 
the  bank  was  royal,  the  king  was  bound  to  make  good 
the  value  of  its  bills;  that  he  committed  to  the  com 
pany  the  government  of  the  bank  for  fifty  years,  and 
sold  to  it  fifty  millions  of  stock  belonging  to  him,  for 
nine  hundred  millions,  a  simple  advance  of  eighteen 
hundred  per  cent.  The  decree  farther  declared,  in  the 
king's  name,  that  he  would  never  draw  on  the  bank 
until  the  value  of  his  drafts  had  first  been  lodged  in  it 
by  his  receivers-general. 

The  bank,  it  was  said,  had  by  this  time  issued  notes 
to  the  amount  of  one  thousand  millions,  being  more 
paper  than  all  the  banks  of  Europe  were  able  to  cir 
culate.  To  aid  its  credit,  the  receivers  of  the  revenue 
were  directed  to  take  bank-notes  of  the  sub-receivers. 
All  payments,  also,  of  one  hundred  livres  and  upward, 
were  ordered  to  be  made  in  bank-notes.  These  com 
pulsory  measures  for  a  short  time  gave  a  false  credit 
to  the  bank,  which  proceeded  to  discount  merchants' 
notes,  to  lend  money  on  jewels,  plate,  and  other  valu 
ables,  as  well  as  on  mortgages. 


154     TIME  OF  UNEXAMPLED  PROSPERITY 

Still  farther  to  force  on  the  system,  an  edict  next 
appeared,  forbidding  any  individual,  or  any  corporate 
body,  civil  or  religious,  to  hold  in  possession  more 
than  five  hundred  livres  in  current  coin ;  that  is  to  say, 
about  seven  louis-d'ors ;  the  value  of  the  louis-d'or  in 
paper  being,  at  the  time,  seventy-two  livres.  All  the 
gold  and  silver  they  might  have,  above  this  pittance, 
was  to  be  brought  to  the  royal  bank,  and  exchanged 
either  for  shares  or  bills. 

As  confiscation  was  the  penalty  of  disobedience  to 
this  decree,  and  informers  were  assured  a  share  of  the 
forfeitures,  a  bounty  was  in  a  manner  held  out  to 
domestic  spies  and  traitors,  and  the  most  odious  scru 
tiny  was  awakened  into  the  pecuniary  affairs  of  fami 
lies  and  individuals.  The  very  confidence  between 
friends  and  relatives  was  impaired,  and  all  the  domes 
tic  ties  and  virtues  of  society  were  threatened,  until 
a  general  sentiment  of  indignation  broke  forth,  that 
compelled  the  Regent  to  rescind  the  odious  decree. 
Lord  Stairs,  the  British  ambassador,  speaking  of  the 
system  of  espionage  encouraged  by  this  edict,  observed 
that  it  was  impossible  to  doubt  that  Law  was  a  thor 
ough  Catholic,  since  he  had  thus  established  the  inqui 
sition,  after  having  already  proved  transubstantiation 
by  changing  specie  into  paper. 

Equal  abuses  had  taken  place  under  the  colonizing 
project.  In  his  thousand  expedients  to  amass  capital, 
Law  had  sold  parcels  of  land  in  Mississippi,  at  the  rate 
of  three  thousand  livres  for  a  league  square.  Many 
capitalists  had  purchased  estates  large  enough  to  con 
stitute  almost  a  principality;  the  only  evil  was,  Law 
had  sold  a  property  which  he  could  not  deliver.  The 
agents  of  police,  who  aided  in  recruiting  the  ranks  of 
the  colonists,  had  been  guilty  of  scandalous  impositions. 
Under  pretence  of  taking  up  mendicants  and  vaga 
bonds,  they  had  scoured  the  streets  at  night,  seizing 
upon  honest  mechanics  or  their  sons,  and  hurrying 


THE  GREAT  MISSISSIPPI  BUBBLE    155 

them  to  their  crimping-houses  for  the  sole  purpose  of 
extorting  money  from  them  as  a  ransom.  The  popu 
lace  was  roused  to  indignation  by  these  abuses.  The 
officers  of  police  were  mobbed  in  the  exercise  of  their 
odious  functions,  and  several  of  them  were  killed,  which 
put  an  end  to  this  flagrant  abuse  of  power. 

In  March,  a  most  extraordinary  decree  of  the  council 
fixed  the  price  of  shares  of  the  India  Company  at  nine 
thousand  livres  each.  All  ecclesiastical  communities 
and  hospitals  were  now  prohibited  from  investing 
money  at  interest  in  anything  but  India  stock.  With 
all  these  props  and  stays,  the  system  continued  to  totter. 
How  could  it  be  otherwise,  under  a  despotic  govern 
ment  that  could  alter  the  value  of  property  at  every 
moment?  The  very  compulsory  measures  that  were 
adopted  to  establish  the  credit  of  the  bank  hastened  its 
fall,  plainly  showing  there  was  a  want  of  solid  security. 
Law  caused  pamphlets  to  be  published,  setting  forth, 
in  eloquent  language,  the  vast  profits  that  must  accrue 
to  holders  of  the  stock,  and  the  impossibility  of  the 
king's  ever  doing  it  any  harm.  On  the  very  back  of 
these  assertions  came  forth  an  edict  of  the  king,  dated 
the  22d  of  May,  wherein,  under  pretence  of  having 
reduced  the  value  of  his  coin,  it  was  declared  necessary 
to  reduce  the  value  of  his  bank-notes  one  half,  and  of 
the  India  shares  from  nine  thousand  to  five  thousand 
livres ! 

This  decree  came  like  a  clap  of  thunder  upon  share 
holders.  They  found  one  half  of  the  pretended  value 
of  the  paper  in  their  hands  annihilated  in  an  instant; 
and  what  certainty  had  they  with  respect  to  the  other 
half?  The  rich  considered  themselves  ruined;  those 
in  humbler  circumstances  looked  forward  to  abject 
beggary. 

The  parliament  seized  the  occasion  to  stand  forth  as 
the  protector  of  the  public,  and  refused  to  register  the 
decree.  It  gained  the  credit  of  compelling  the  Regent 


156     TIME  OF  UNEXAMPLED  PROSPERITY 

to  retrace  his  step,  though  it  is  more  probable  he  yielded 
to  the  universal  burst  of  public  astonishment  and  repro 
bation.  On  the  2/th  of  May  the  edict  was  revoked, 
and  bank-bills  were  restored  to  their  previous  value. 
But  the  fatal  blow  had  been  struck;  the  delusion  was 
at  an  end.  Government  itself  had  lost  all  public  con 
fidence  equally  with  the  bank  it  had  engendered,  and 
which  its  own  arbitrary  acts  had  brought  into  discredit. 
"  All  Paris,"  says  the  Regent's  mother,  in  her  letters, 
"  has  been  mourning  at  the  cursed  decree  which  Law 
has  persuaded  my  son  to  make.  I  have  received  anony 
mous  letters  stating  that  I  have  nothing  to  fear  on  my 
own  account,  but  that  my  son  shall  be  pursued  with 
fire  and  sword." 

The  Regent  now  endeavored  to  avert  the  odium  of 
his  ruinous  schemes  from  himself.  He  affected  to  have 
suddenly  lost  confidence  in  Law,  and  on  the  2Qth  of 
May  discharged  him  from  his  employ  as  Comptroller- 
General,  and  stationed  a  Swiss  guard  of  sixteen  men 
in  his  house.  He  even  refused  to  see  him,  when,  on 
the  following  day,  he  applied  at  the  portal  of  the 
Palais  Royal  for  admission ;  but  having  played  off  this 
farce  before  the  public,  he  admitted  him  secretly  the 
same  night,  by  a  private  door,  and  continued  as  before 
to  cooperate  with  him  in  his  financial  schemes. 

On  the  first  of  June,  the  Regent  issued  a  decree  per 
mitting  persons  to  have  as  much  money  as  they  pleased 
in  their  possession.  Few,  however,  were  in  a  state  to 
benefit  by  this  permission.  There  was  a  run  upon  the 
bank,  but  a  royal  ordinance  immediately  suspended 
payment  until  farther  orders.  To  relieve  the  public 
mind,  a  city  stock  was  created  of  twenty-five  mil 
lions,  bearing  an  interest  of  two  and  a  half  per  cent., 
for  which  bank-notes  were  taken  in  exchange.  The 
bank-notes  thus  withdrawn  from  circulation  were  pub 
licly  burnt  before  the  Hotel  de  Ville.  The  public,  how 
ever,  had  lost  confidence  in  everything  and  everybody, 


THE  GREAT  MISSISSIPPI  BUBBLE    157 

and  suspected  fraud  and  collusion  in  those  who  pre 
tended  to  burn  the  bills. 

A  general  confusion  now  took  place  in  the  financial 
world.  Families  who  had  lived  in  opulence  found 
themselves  suddenly  reduced  to  indigence.  Schemers 
who  had  been  revelling  in  the  delusion  of  princely 
fortunes  found  their  estates  vanishing  into  thin  air. 
Those  who  had  any  property  remaining  sought  to  se 
cure  it  against  reverses.  Cautious  persons  found  there 
was  no  safety  for  property  in  a  country  where  the  coin 
was  continually  shifting  in  value,  and  where  a  des 
potism  was  exercised  over  public  securities,  and  even 
over  the  private  purses  of  individuals.  They  began  to 
send  their  effects  into  other  countries ;  when  lo !  on  the 
2Oth  of  June,  a  royal  edict  commanded  them  to  bring 
back  their  effects,  under  penalty  of  forfeiting  twice 
their  value,  and  forbade  them,  under  like  penalty,  from 
investing  their  money  in  foreign  stocks.  This  was 
soon  followed  by  another  decree,  forbidding  any  one 
to  retain  precious  stones  in  his  possession,  or  to  sell 
them  to  foreigners ;  all  must  be  deposited  in  the  bank 
in  exchange  for  depreciating  paper ! 

Execrations  were  now  poured  out,  on  all  sides, 
against  Law,  and  menaces  of  vengeance.  What  a  con 
trast,  in  a  short  time,  to  the  venal  incense  once  offered 
up  to  him !  "  This  person,"  writes  the  Regent's 
mother,  "  who  was  formerly  worshipped  as  a  god,  is 
now  not  sure  of  his  life.  It  is  astonishing  how  greatly 
terrified  he  is.  He  is  as  a  dead  man;  he  is  pale  as  a 
sheet,  and  it  is  said  he  can  never  get  over  it.  My  son 
is  not  dismayed,  though  he  is  threatened  on  all  sides, 
and  is  very  much  amused  with  Law's  terrors." 

About  the  middle  of  July,  the  last  grand  attempt 
was  made  by  Law  and  the  Regent  to  keep  up  the  sys 
tem  and  provide  for  the  immense  emission  of  paper. 
A  decree  was  fabricated,  giving  the  India  Company 
the  entire  monopoly  of  commerce,  on  condition  that  it 


158     TIME  OF  UNEXAMPLED  PROSPERITY 

would,  in  the  course  of  a  year,  reimburse  six  hundred 
millions  of  livres  of  its  bills,  at  the  rate  of  fifty  millions 
per  month. 

On  the  1 7th  this  decree  was  sent  to  parliament  to  be 
registered.  It  at  once  raised  a  storm  of  opposition  in 
that  assembly,  and  a  vehement  discussion  took  place. 
While  that  was  going  on,  a  disastrous  scene  was  pass 
ing  out  of  doors. 

The  calamitous  effects  of  the  system  had  reached  the 
humblest  concerns  of  human  life.  Provisions  had  risen 
to  an  enormous  price;  paper  money  was  refused  at 
all  the  shops;  the  people  had  not  wherewithal  to  buy 
bread.  It  had  been  found  absolutely  indispensable  to 
relax  a  little  from  the  suspension  of  specie  payments, 
and  to  allow  small  sums  to  be  scantily  exchanged  for 
paper.  The  doors  of  the  bank  and  the  neighboring 
street  were  immediately  thronged  with  a  famishing 
multitude  seeking  cash  for  bank-notes  of  ten  livres. 
So  great  was  the  press  and  struggle,  that  several  per 
sons  were  stifled  and  crushed  to  death.  The  mob 
carried  three  of  the  bodies  to  the  court-yard  of  the 
Palais  Royal.  Some  cried  for  the  Regent  to  come 
forth,  and  behold  the  effect  of  his  system;  others  de 
manded  the  death  of  Law,  the  impostor,  who  had 
brought  this  misery  and  ruin  upon  the  nation. 

The  moment  was  critical :  the  popular  fury  was 
rising  to  a  tempest,  when  Le  Blanc,  the  Secretary  of 
State,  stepped  forth.  He  had  previously  sent  for  the 
military,  and  now  only  sought  to  gain  time.  Singling 
out  six  or  seven  stout  fellows,  who  seemed  to  be  the 
ringleaders  of  the  mob,  "  My  good  fellows,"  said  he, 
calmly,  "  carry  away  these  bodies,  and  place  them  in 
some  church,  and  then  come  back  quickly  to  me  for 
your  pay."  They  immediately  obeyed;  a  kind  of 
funeral  procession  was  formed ;  the  arrival  of  troops 
dispersed  those  who  lingered  behind;  and  Paris  was 
probably  saved  from  an  insurrection. 


THE  GREAT  MISSISSIPPI  BUBBLE    159 

About  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning,  all  being  quiet, 
Law  ventured  to  go  in  his  carriage  to  the  Palais  Royal. 
He  was  saluted  with  cries  and  curses  as  he  passed 
along  the  streets;  and  he  reached  the  Palais  Royal  in 
a  terrible  fright.  The  Regent  amused  himself  with  his 
fears,  but  retained  him  with  him,  and  sent  off  his  car 
riage,  which  was  assailed  by  the  mob,  pelted  with 
stones,  and  the  glasses  shivered.  The  news  of  this 
outrage  was  communicated  to  parliament  in  the  midst 
of  a  furious  discussion  of  the  decree  for  the  commer 
cial  monopoly.  The  first  president,  who  had  been 
absent  for  a  short  time,  reentered,  and  communicated 
the  tidings  in  a  whimsical  couplet: 

Messieurs,  Messieurs  !   bonne  nouvelle ! 
Le  carrosse  de  Law  est  reduit  en  carrelle ! 

Gentlemen,  Gentlemen  !  good  news ! 

The  carriage  of  Law  is  shivered  to  atoms ! 

The  members  sprang  up  with  joy.  "  And  Law ! " 
exclaimed  they,  "  has  he  been  torn  to  pieces  ?  "  The 
president  was  ignorant  of  the  result  of  the  tumult; 
whereupon  the  debate  was  cut  short,  the  decree  re 
jected,  and  the  house  adjourned,  the  members  hurry 
ing  to  learn  the  particulars.  Such  was  the  levity  with 
which  public  affairs  were  treated  at  that  dissolute  and 
disastrous  period. 

On  the  following  day  there  was  an  ordinance  from 
the  king,  prohibiting  all  popular  assemblages;  and 
troops  were  stationed  at  various  points,  and  in  all 
public  places.  The  regiment  of  guards  was  ordered 
to  hold  itself  in  readiness,  and  the  musketeers  to  be 
at  their  hotels,  with  their  horses  ready  saddled.  A 
number  of  small  offices  were  opened,  where  people 
might  cash  small  notes,  though  with  great  delay  and 
difficulty.  An  edict  was  also  issued,  declaring  that 
whoever  should  refuse  to  take  bank-notes  in  the  course 
of  trade,  should  forfeit  double  the  amount ! 


160     TIME  OF  UNEXAMPLED  PROSPERITY 

The  continued  and  vehement  opposition  of  parlia 
ment  to  the  whole  delusive  system  of  finance  had  been 
a  constant  source  of  annoyance  to  the  Regent;  but 
this  obstinate  rejection  of  his  last  grand  expedient  of 
a  commercial  monopoly  was  not  to  be  tolerated.  He 
determined  to  punish  that  intractable  body.  The  Abbe 
Dubois  and  Law  suggested  a  simple  mode;  it  was  to 
suppress  the  parliament  altogether,  being,  as  they 
observed,  so  far  from  useful,  that  it  was  a  constant 
impediment  to  the  march  of  public  affairs.  The  Re 
gent  was  half  inclined  to  listen  to  their  advice;  but 
upon  calmer  consideration,  and  the  advice  of  friends, 
he  adopted  a  more  moderate  course.  On  the  2Oth  of 
July,  early  in  the  morning,  all  the  doors  of  the  parlia 
ment-house  were  taken  possession  of  by  the  troops. 
Others  were  sent  to  surround  the  house  of  the  first 
president,  and  others  to  the  houses  of  the  various 
members;  who  were  all  at  first  in  great  alarm,  until 
an  order  from  the  king  was  put  into  their  hands,  to 
render  themselves  at  Pontoise,  in  the  course  of  two 
days,  to  which  place  the  parliament  was  thus  suddenly 
and  arbitrarily  transferred. 

This  despotic  act,  says  Voltaire,  would  at  any 
other  time  have  caused  an  insurrection;  but  one  half 
of  the  Parisians  were  occupied  by  their  ruin,  and  the 
other  half  by  their  fancied  riches,  which  were  soon 
to  vanish.  The  president  and  members  of  parliament 
acquiesced  in  the  mandate  without  a  murmur;  they 
even  went  as  if  on  a  party  of  pleasure,  and  made  every 
preparation  to  lead  a  joyous  life  in  their  exile.  The 
musketeers,  who  held  possession  of  the  vacated  parlia 
ment-house,  a  gay  corps  of  fashionable  young  fellows, 
amused  themselves  with  making  songs  and  pasqui 
nades,  at  the  expense  of  the  exiled  legislators;  and  at 
length,  to  pass  away  time,  formed  themselves  into  a 
mock  parliament;  elected  their  presidents,  kings,  min 
isters,  and  advocates;  took  their  seats  in  due  form; 


THE  GREAT  MISSISSIPPI  BUBBLE    161 

arraigned  a  cat  at  their  bar,  in  place  of  the  Sieur  Law, 
and,  after  giving  it  a  "  fair  trial,"  condemned  it  to  be 
hanged.  In  this  manner,  public  affairs  and  public 
institutions  were  lightly  turned  to  jest. 

As  to  the  exiled  parliament,  it  lived  gayly  and 
luxuriously  at  Pontoise,  at  the  public  expense;  for 
the  Regent  had  furnished  funds,  as  usual,  with  a  lavish 
hand.  The  first  president  had  the  mansion  of  the 
Duke  de  Bouillon  put  at  his  disposal,  all  ready  fur 
nished,  with  a  vast  and  delightful  garden  on  the 
borders  of  a  river.  There  he  kept  open  house  to  all 
the  members  of  parliament.  Several  tables  were 
spread  every  day,  all  furnished  luxuriously  and  splen 
didly;  the  most  exquisite  wines  and  liquors,  the 
choicest  fruits  and  refreshments  of  all  kinds,  abounded. 
A  number  of  small  chariots  for  one  and  two  horses 
were  always  at  hand,  for  such  ladies  and  old  gentle 
men  as  wished  to  take  an  airing  after  dinner,  and 
card  and  billiard  tables  for  such  as  chose  to  amuse 
themselves  in  that  way  until  supper.  The  sister  and 
the  daughter  of  the  first  president  did  the  honors  of  his 
house,  and  he  himself  presided  there  with  an  air  of 
great  ease,  hospitality,  and  magnificence.  It  became  a 
party  of  pleasure  to  drive  from  Paris  to  Pontoise, 
which  was  six  leagues  distant,  and  partake  of  the 
amusements  and  festivities  of  the  place.  Business 
was  openly  slighted;  nothing  was  thought  of  but 
amusement.  The  Regent  and  his  government  were 
laughed  at,  and  made  the  subjects  of  continual  pleas 
antries  ;  while  the  enormous  expenses  incurred  by  this 
idle  and  lavish  course  of  life  more  than  doubled  the 
liberal  sums  provided.  This  was  the  way  in  which 
the  parliament  resented  their  exile. 

During  all  this  time  the  system  was  getting  more 
and  more  involved.  The  stock  exchange  had  some 
time  previously  been  removed  to  the  Place  Vendome; 
but  the  tumult  and  noise  becoming  intolerable  to  the 


1 62     TIME  OF  UNEXAMPLED  PROSPERITY 

residents  of  that  polite  quarter,  and  especially  to  the 
chancellor,  whose  hotel  was  there,  the  Prince  and 
Princess  Carignan,  both  deep  gamblers  in  Mississippi 
stock,  offered  the  extensive  garden  of  their  Hotel  de 
Soissons  as  a  rallying-place  for  the  worshippers  of 
Mammon.  The  offer  was  accepted.  A  number  of 
barracks  were  immediately  erected  in  the  garden,  as 
offices  for  the  stock-brokers,  and  an  order  was  obtained 
from  the  Regent,  under  pretext  of  police  regulations, 
that  no  bargain  should  be  valid,  unless  concluded  in 
these  barracks.  The  rent  of  them  immediately 
mounted  to  a  hundred  livres  a  month  for  each, 
and  the  whole  yielded  these  noble  proprietors  an 
ignoble  revenue  of  half  a  million  of  livres. 

The  mania  for  gain,  however,  was  now  at  an  end. 
A  universal  panic  succeeded.  "  Sauve  qui  pent!  "  was 
the  watchword.  Every  one  was  anxious  to  exchange 
falling  paper  for  something  of  intrinsic  and  perma 
nent  value.  Since  money  was  not  to  be  had,  jewels, 
precious  stones,  plate,  porcelain,  trinkets  of  gold  and 
silver,  all  commanded  any  price,  in  paper.  Land  was 
bought  at  fifty  years'  purchase,  and  he  esteemed  him 
self  happy  who  could  get  it  even  at  this  price.  Mo 
nopolies  now  became  the  rage  among  the  noble  holders 
of  paper.  The  Duke  de  la  Force  bought  up  nearly 
all  the  tallow,  grease,  and  soap;  others,  the  coffee 
and  spices;  others,  hay  and  oats.  Foreign  exchanges 
were  almost  impracticable.  The  debts  of  Dutch  and 
English  merchants  were  paid  in  this  fictitious  money, 
all  the  coin  of  the  realm  having  disappeared.  All  the 
relations  of  debtor  and  creditor  were  confounded. 
With  one  thousand  crowns  one  might  pay  a  debt  of 
eighteen  thousand  livres. 

The  Regent's  mother,  who  once  exulted  in  the  af 
fluence  of  bank  paper,  now  wrote  in  a  very  different 
tone.  "  I  have  often  wished,"  said  she,  in  her  letters, 
"  that  these  bank-notes  were  in  the  depths  of  the  in- 


THE  GREAT  MISSISSIPPI  BUBBLE    163 

fernal  regions.  They  have  given  my  son  more  trouble 
than  relief.  Nobody  in  France  has  a  penny.  .  .  . 
My  son  was  once  popular;  but  since  the  arrival  of 
this  cursed  Law  he  is  hated  more  and  more.  Not  a 
week  passes  without  my  receiving  letters  filled  with 
frightful  threats,  and  speaking  of  him  as  a  tyrant.  I 
have  just  received  one,  threatening  him  with  poison. 
When  I  showed  it  to  him,  he  did  nothing  but  laugh." 

In  the  mean  time,  Law  was  dismayed  by  the  in 
creasing  troubles,  and  terrified  at  the  tempest  he  had 
raised.  He  was  not  a  man  of  real  courage ;  and,  fear 
ing  for  his  personal  safety,  from  popular  tumult,  or 
the  despair  of  ruined  individuals,  he  again  took  refuge 
in  the  palace  of  the  Regent.  The  latter,  as  usual, 
amused  himself  with  his  terrors,  and  turned  every 
new  disaster  into  a  jest;  but  he,  too,  began  to  think 
of  his  own  security. 

In  pursuing  the  schemes  of  Law,  he  had,  no  doubt, 
calculated  to  carry  through  his  term  of  government 
with  ease  and  splendor,  and  to  enrich  himself,  his  con 
nections,  and  his  favorites;  and  had  hoped  that  the 
catastrophe  of  the  system  would  not  take  place  until 
after  the  expiration  of  the  regency. 

He  now  saw  his  mistake,  —  that  it  was  impossible 
much  longer  to  prevent  an  explosion;  and  he  deter 
mined  at  once  to  get  Law  out  of  the  way,  and  then  to 
charge  him  with  the  whole  tissue  of  delusions  of  this 
paper  alchemy.  He  accordingly  took  occasion  of  the 
recall  of  parliament  in  December,  1720,  to  suggest 
to  Law  the  policy  of  his  avoiding  an  encounter  with 
that  hostile  and  exasperated  body.  Law  needed  no 
urging  to  the  measure.  His  only  desire  was  to  escape 
from  Paris  and  its  tempestuous  populace.  Two  days 
before  the  return  of  parliament,  he  took  his  sudden 
and  secret  departure.  He  travelled  in  a  chaise  bearing 
the  arms  of  the  Regent,  and  was  escorted  by  a  kind  of 
safeguard  of  servants,  in  the  duke's  livery.  His  first 


1 64     TIME  OF  UNEXAMPLED  PROSPERITY 

place  of  refuge  was  an  estate  of  the  Regent's,  about 
six  leagues  from  Paris,  from  whence  he  pushed  for 
ward  to  Bruxelles. 

As  soon  as  Law  was  fairly  out  of  the  way,  the 
Duke  of  Orleans  summoned  a  council  of  the  regency, 
and  informed  them  that  they  were  assembled  to  de 
liberate  on  the  state  of  the  finances  and  the  affairs 
of  the  India  Company.  Accordingly  La  Houssaye, 
Comptroller-General,  rendered  a  perfectly  clear  state 
ment,  by  which  it  appeared  that  there  were  bank-bills 
in  circulation  to  the  amount  of  two  milliards  seven 
hundred  millions  of  livres,  without  any  evidence  that 
this  enormous  sum  had  been  emitted  in  virtue  of  any 
ordinance  from  the  general  assembly  of  the  India 
Company,  which  alone  had  the  right  to  authorize  such 
emissions. 

The  council  was  astonished  at  this  disclosure,  and 
looked  to  the  Regent  for  explanation.  Pushed  to  the 
extreme,  the  Regent  avowed  that  Law  had  emitted 
bills  to  the  amount  of  twelve  hundred  millions  beyond 
what  had  been  fixed  by  ordinances,  and  in  contradic 
tion  to  express  prohibitions ;  that,  the  thing  being 
done,  he,  the  Regent,  had  legalized  or  rather  covered 
the  transaction,  by  decrees  ordering  such  emissions, 
which  decrees  he  had  antedated. 

A  stormy  scene  ensued  between  the  Regent  and  the 
Duke  de  Bourbon,  little  to  the  credit  of  either,  both 
having  been  deeply  implicated  in  the  cabalistic  opera 
tions  of  the  system.  In  fact,  the  several  members  of 
the  council  had  been  among  the  most  venal  "  benefici 
aries  "  of  the  scheme,  and  had  interests  at  stake  which 
they  were  anxious  to  secure.  From  all  the  circum 
stances  of  the  case,  I  am  inclined  to  think  that  others 
were  more  to  blame  than  Law  for  the  disastrous  effects 
of  his  financial  projects.  His  bank,  had  it  been  con 
fined  to  its  original  limits,  and  left  to  the  control  of  its 
own  internal  regulations,  might  have  gone  on  prosper- 


THE  GREAT  MISSISSIPPI  BUBBLE    165 

ously,  and  been  of  great  benefit  to  the  nation.  It  was 
an  institution  fitted  for  a  free  country;  but,  unfortu 
nately,  it  was  subject  to  the  control  of  a  despotic  gov 
ernment,  that  could,  at  its  pleasure,  alter  the  value  of 
the  specie  within  its  vaults,  and  compel  the  most  extrava 
gant  expansions  of  its  paper  circulation.  The  vital 
principle  of  a  bank  is  security  in  the  regularity  of  its 
operations,  and  the  immediate  convertibility  of  its 
paper  into  coin ;  and  what  confidence  could  be  reposed 
in  an  institution,  or  its  paper  promises,  when  the  sover 
eign  could  at  any  moment  centuple  those  promises  in 
the  market,  and  seize  upon  all  the  money  in  the  bank? 
The  compulsory  measures  used,  likewise,  to  force  bank 
notes  into  currency,  against  the  judgment  of  the 
public,  was  fatal  to  the  system;  for  credit  must  be 
free  and  uncontrolled  as  the  common  air.  The  Re 
gent  was  the  evil  spirit  of  the  system,  that  forced  Law 
on  to  an  expansion  of  his  paper  currency  far  beyond 
what  he  had  ever  dreamed  of.  He  it  was  that  in  a 
manner  compelled  the  unlucky  projector  to  devise  all 
kinds  of  collateral  companies  and  monopolies,  by  which 
to  raise  funds  to  meet  the  constantly  and  enormously 
increasing  emissions  of  shares  and  notes.  Law  was 
but  like  a  poor  conjurer  in  the  hands  of  a  potent  spirit 
that  he  has  evoked,  and  that  obliges  him  to  go  on,  des 
perately  and  ruinously,  with  his  conjurations.  He 
only  thought  at  the  outset  to  raise  the  wind,  but  the 
Regent  compelled  him  to  raise  the  whirlwind. 

The  investigation  of  the  affairs  of  the  company  by 
the  council  resulted  in  nothing  beneficial  to  the  public. 
The  princes  and  nobles  who  had  enriched  themselves 
by  all  kinds  of  juggles  and  extortions  escaped  un 
punished,  and  retained  the  greater  part  of  their  spoils. 
Many  of  the  "  suddenly  rich,"  who  had  risen  from 
obscurity  to  a  giddy  height  of  imaginary  prosperity, 
and  had  indulged  in  all  kinds  of  vulgar  and  ridiculous 
excesses,  awoke  as  out  of  a  dream,  in  their  original 


166     TIME  OF  UNEXAMPLED  PROSPERITY 

poverty,  now  made  more  galling  and  humiliating  by 
their  transient  elevation. 

The  weight  of  the  evil,  however,  fell  on  more 
valuable  classes  of  society,  —  honest  tradesmen  and 
artisans,  who  had  been  seduced  away  from  the  slow 
accumulations  of  industry,  to  the  specious  chances  of 
speculation.  Thousands  of  meritorious  families,  also, 
once  opulent,  had  been  reduced  to  indigence  by  a  too 
great  confidence  in  government.  There  was  a  general 
derangement  in  the  finances,  that  long  exerted  a  bane 
ful  influence  over  the  national  prosperity;  but  the 
most  disastrous  effects  of  the  system  were  upon  the 
morals  and  manners  of  the  nation.  The  faith  of  en 
gagements,  the  sanctity  of  promises  in  affairs  of  busi 
ness,  were  at  an  end.  Every  expedient  to  grasp 
present  profit,  or  to  evade  present  difficulty,  was  toler 
ated.  While  such  deplorable  laxity  of  principle  was 
generated  in  the  busy  classes,  the  chivalry  of  France 
had  soiled  their  pennons ;  and  honor  and  glory,  so 
long  the  idols  of  the  Gallic  nobility,  had  been  tumbled 
to  the  earth,  and  trampled  in  the  dirt  of  the  stock- 
market. 

As  to  Law,  the  originator  of  the  system,  he  appears 
eventually  to  have  profited  but  little  by  his  schemes. 
"  He  was  a  quack,"  says  Voltaire,  "  to  whom  the  state 
was  given  to  be  cured,  but  who  poisoned  it  with  his 
drugs,  and  who  poisoned  himself."  The  effects 
which  he  left  behind  in  France  were  sold  at  a  low 
price,  and  the  proceeds  dissipated.  His  landed  estates 
were  confiscated.  He  carried  away  with  him  barely 
enough  to  maintain  himself,  his  wife,  and  daughter, 
with  decency.  The  chief  relic  of  his  immense  fortune 
was  a  great  diamond,  which  he  was  often  obliged  to 
pawn.  He  was  in  England  in  1721,  and  was  presented 
to  George  the  First.  He  returned,  shortly  afterward, 
to  the  Continent,  shifting  about  from  place  to  place, 
and  died  in  Venice,  in  1729.  His  wife  and  daughter, 


THE  PARISIAN  HOTEL  167 

accustomed  to  live  with  the  prodigality  of  princesses, 
could  not  conform  to  their  altered  fortunes,  but  dissi 
pated  the  scanty  means  left  to  them,  and  sank  into 
abject  poverty.  "  I  saw  his  wife,"  says  Voltaire,  "  at 
Bruxelles,  as  much  humiliated  as  she  had  been  haughty 
and  triumphant  at  Paris."  An  elder  brother  of  Law 
remained  in  France,  and  was  protected  by  the  Duchess 
of  Bourbon.  His  descendants  acquitted  themselves 
honorably,  in  various  public  employments ;  and  one  of 
them  was  the  Marquis  Lauriston,  sometime  Lieutenant- 
General  and  Peer  of  France. 


SKETCHES   IN  PARIS   IN   1825 

FROM  THE  TRAVELLING  NOTE-BOOK  OF 
GEOFFREY   CRAYON,   GENT. 

THE  PARISIAN  HOTEL 

A  GREAT  hotel  in  Paris  is  a  street  set  on  end :  the 
grand  staircase  is  the  highway,  and  every  floor  or 
apartment  a  separate  habitation.  The  one  in  which 
I  am  lodged  may  serve  as  a  specimen.  It  is  a  large 
quadrangular  pile,  built  round  a  spacious  paved  court. 
The  ground-floor  is  occupied  by  shops,  magazines,  and 
domestic  offices.  Then  comes  the  entre-sol,  with  low 
ceilings,  short  windows,  and  dwarf  chambers;  then 
succeed  a  succession  of  floors,  or  stories,  rising  one 
above  the  other,  to  the  number  of  Mahomet's  heavens. 
Each  floor  is  a  mansion,  complete  within  itself,  with 
antechamber,  saloons,  dining  and  sleeping  rooms, 
kitchen,  and  other  conveniences.  Some  floors  are  di 
vided  into  two  or  more  suites  of  apartments.  Each 
apartment  has  its  main  door  of  entrance,  opening  upon 
the  staircase,  or  landing-places,  and  locked  like  a 


1 68  SKETCHES  IN  PARIS 

street-door.  Thus  several  families  and  numerous 
single  persons  live  under  the  same  roof,  totally  in 
dependent  of  each  other,  and  may  live  so  for  years, 
without  holding  more  intercourse  than  is  kept  up  in 
other  cities  by  residents  in  the  same  street. 

Like  the  great  world,  this  little  microcosm  has  its 
gradations  of  rank  and  style  and  importance.  The 
premier,  or  first  floor,  with  its  grand  saloons,  lofty 
ceilings,  and  splendid  furniture,  is  decidedly  the  aris- 
tocratical  part  of  the  establishment.  The  second  floor 
is  scarcely  less  aristocratical  and  magnificent;  the 
other  floors  go  on  lessening  in  splendor  as  they  gain 
in  altitude,  and  end  with  the  attics,  the  region  of  petty 
tailors,  clerks,  and  sewing-girls.  To  make  the  filling 
up  of  the  mansion  complete,  every  odd  nook  and  corner 
is  fitted  up  as  a  joli  petit  appartement  a  gargon,  (a 
pretty  little  bachelor's  apartment,)  that  is  to  say,  some 
little  dark  inconvenient  nestling-place  for  a  poor  devil 
of  a  bachelor. 

The  whole  domain  is  shut  up  from  the  street  by  a 
great  porte-cochere,  or  portal,  calculated  for  the  ad 
mission  of  carriages.  This  consists  of  two  massy 
folding  doors,  that  swing  heavily  open  upon  a  spacious 
entrance,  passing  under  the  front  of  the  edifice  into 
the  court-yard.  On  one  side  is  a  grand  staircase  lead 
ing  to  the  upper  apartments.  Immediately  without 
the  portal  is  the  porter's  lodge,  a  small  room  with  one 
or  two  bedrooms  adjacent,  for  the  accommodation  of 
the  concierge,  or  porter,  and  his  family.  This  is  one 
of  the  most  important  functionaries  of  the  hotel.  He 
is,  in  fact,  the  Cerberus  of  the  establishment,  and  no 
one  can  pass  in  or  out  without  his  knowledge  and  con 
sent.  The  porte-cochere  in  general  is  fastened  by  a 
sliding  bolt,  from  which  a  cord  or  wire  passes  into 
the  porter's  lodge.  Whoever  wishes  to  go  out  must 
speak  to  the  porter,  who  draws  the  bolt.  A  visitor 
from  without  gives  a  single  rap  with  the  massive 


THE  PARISIAN  HOTEL  169 

knocker;  the  bolt  is  immediately  drawn,  as  if  by  an 
invisible  hand;  the  door  stands  ajar,  the  visitor  pushes 
it  open,  and  enters.  A  face  presents  itself  at  the  glass 
door  of  the  porter's  little  chamber;  the  stranger  pro 
nounces  the  name  of  the  person  he  comes  to  seek.  If 
the  person  or  family  is  of  importance,  occupying  the 
first  or  second  floor,  the  porter  sounds  a  bell  once  or 
twice,  to  give  notice  that  a  visitor  is  at  hand.  The 
stranger  in  the  mean  time  ascends  the  great  staircase, 
the  highway  common  to  all,  and  arrives  at  the  outer 
door,  equivalent  to  a  street-door,  of  the  suite  of  rooms 
inhabited  by  his  friends.  Beside  this  hangs  a  bell- 
cord,  with  which  he  rings  for  admittance. 

When  the  family  or  person  inquired  for  is  of  less 
importance,  or  lives  in  some  remote  part  of  the  mansion 
less  easy  to  be  apprised,  no  signal  is  given.  The  appli 
cant  pronounces  the  name  at  the  porter's  door,  and  is 
told,  "  Montez  au  troisieme,  au  quatrieme;  sonnez  a 
la  porte  a  droite,  ou  a  gauche,"  ("  Ascend  to  the  third 
or  fourth  story ;  ring  the  bell  on  the  right  or  left  hand 
door,")  as  the  case  may  be. 

The  porter  and  his  wife  act  as  domestics  to  such 
of  the  inmates  of  the  mansion  as  do  not  keep  servants ; 
making  their  beds,  arranging  their  rooms,  lighting  their 
fires,  and  doing  other  menial  offices,  for  which  they 
receive  a  monthly  stipend.  They  are  also  in  con 
fidential  intercourse  with  the  servants  of  the  other  in 
mates,  and,  having  an  eye  on  all  the  incomers  and  out- 
goers,  are  thus  enabled,  by  hook  and  by  crook,  to  learn 
the  secrets  and  the  domestic  history  of  every  member 
of  the  little  territory  within  the  porte-cochere. 

The  porter's  lodge  is  accordingly  a  great  scene  of 
gossip,  where  all  the  private  affairs  of  this  interior 
neighborhood  are  discussed.  The  court-yard,  also,  is 
an  assembling-place  in  the  evening  for  the  servants  of 
the  different  families,  and  a  sisterhood  of  sewing-girls 
from  the  entre-sols  and  the  attics,  to  play  at  various 


170  SKETCHES  IN   PARIS 

games,  and  dance  to  the  music  of  their  own  songs  and 
the  echoes  of  their  feet;  at  which  assemblages  the 
porter's  daughter  takes  the  lead,  —  fresh,  pretty, 
buxom  girl,  generally  called  "  La  Petite,"  though  al 
most  as  tall  as  a  grenadier.  These  little  evening 
gatherings,  so  characteristic  of  this  gay  country,  are 
countenanced  by  the  various  families  of  the  mansion, 
who  often  look  down  from  their  windows  and  balconies 
on  moonlight  evenings,  and  enjoy  the  simple  revels 
of  their  domestics.  I  must  observe,  however,  that  the 
hotel  I  am  describing  is  rather  a  quiet,  retired  one, 
where  most  of  the  inmates  are  permanent  residents 
from  year  to  year,  so  that  there  is  more  of  the  spirit  of 
neighborhood  than  in  the  bustling,  fashionable  hotels 
in  the  gay  parts  of  Paris,  which  are  continually 
changing  their  inhabitants. 


MY  FRENCH  NEIGHBOR 

I  often  amuse  myself  by  watching  from  my  window 
(which,  by  the  by,  is  tolerably  elevated)  the  move 
ments  of  the  teeming  little  world  below  me ;  and  as  I 
am  on  sociable  terms  with  the  porter  and  his  wife,  I 
gather  from  them,  as  they  light  my  fire,  or  serve 
my  breakfast,  anecdotes  of  all  my  fellow-lodgers.  I 
have  been  somewhat  curious  in  studying  a  little  antique 
Frenchman,  who  occupies  one  of  the  jolies  chambrcs 
a  garqon  already  mentioned.  He  is  one  of  those  super 
annuated  veterans  who  flourished  before  the  Revolution, 
and  have  weathered  all  the  storms  of  Paris,  in  conse 
quence,  very  probably,  of  being  fortunately  too  insig 
nificant  to  attract  attention.  He  has  a  small  income, 
which  he  manages  with  the  skill  of  a  French  economist ; 
appropriating  so  much  for  his  lodgings,  so  much  for 
his  meals,  so  much  for  his  visits  to  St.  Cloud  and 
Versailles,  and  so  much  for  his  seat  at  the  theatre. 


MY  FRENCH  NEIGHBOR  171 

He  has  resided  at  the  hotel  for  years,  and  always  in 
the  same  chamber,  which  he  furnishes  at  his  own  ex 
pense.  The  decorations  of  the  room  mark  his  various 
ages.  There  are  some  gallant  pictures,  which  he  hung 
up  in  his  younger  days,  with  a  portrait  of  a  lady  of 
rank,  whom  he  speaks  tenderly  of,  dressed  in  the  old 
French  taste,  and  a  pretty  opera-dancer,  pirouetting 
in  a  hoop-petticoat,  who  lately  died  at  a  good  old  age. 
In  a  corner  of  this  picture  is  stuck  a  prescription  for 
rheumatism,  and  below  it  stands  an  easy-chair.  He 
has  a  small  parrot  at  the  window,  to  amuse  him  when 
within  doors,  and  a  pug-dog  to  accompany  him  in  his 
daily  peregrinations.  While  I  am  writing,  he  is 
crossing  the  court  to  go  out.  He  is  attired  in  his  best 
coat  of  sky-blue,  and  is  doubtless  bound  for  the 
Tuileries.  His  hair  is  dressed  in  the  old  style,  with 
powdered  ear-locks  and  a  pigtail.  His  little  dog  trips 
after  him,  sometimes  on  four  legs,  sometimes  on  three, 
and  looking  as  if  his  leather  small-clothes  were  too 
tight  for  him.  Now  the  old  gentleman  stops  to  have 
a  word  with  an  old  crony  who  lives  in  the  entre-sol, 
and  is  just  returning  from  his  promenade.  Now  they 
take  a  pinch  of  snuff  together ;  now  they  pull  out  huge 
red  cotton  handkerchiefs,  (those  "  flags  of  abomina 
tion,"  as  they  have  well  been  called,)  and  blow  their 
noses  most  sonorously.  Now  they  turn  to  make  re 
marks  upon  their  two  little  dogs,  who  are  exchanging 
the  morning's  salutation;  now  they  part,  and  my  old 
gentleman  stops  to  have  a  passing  word  with  the 
porter's  wife;  and  now  he  sallies  forth,  and  is  fairly 
launched  upon  the  town  for  the  day. 

No  man  is  so  methodical  as  a  complete  idler,  and 
none  so  scrupulous  in  measuring  and  portioning  out 
his  time  as  he  whose  time  is  worth  nothing.  The  old 
gentleman  in  question  has  his  exact  hour  for  rising, 
and  for  shaving  himself  by  a  small  mirror  hung  against 
his  casement.  He  sallies  forth  at  a  certain  hour  every 


I72  SKETCHES  IN  PARIS 

morning,  to  take  his  cup  of  coffee  and  his  roll  at  a 
certain  cafe,  where  he  reads  the  papers.  He  has  been 
a  regular  admirer  of  the  lady  who  presides  at  the  bar, 
and  always  stops  to  have  a  little  badinage  with  her,  en 
passant.  He  has  his  regular  walks  on  the  Boulevards 
and  in  the  Palais  Royal,  where  he  sets  his  watch  by 
the  petard  fired  off  by  the  sun  at  mid-day.  He  has 
his  daily  resort  in  the  Garden  of  the  Tuileries,  to  meet 
with  a  knot  of  veteran  idlers  like  himself,  who  talk 
on  pretty  much  the  same  subjects  whenever  they  meet. 
He  has  been  present  at  all  the  sights  and  shows  and 
rejoicings  of  Paris  for  the  last  fifty  years;  has  wit 
nessed  the  great  events  of  the  revolution ;  the  guillotin 
ing  of  the  king  and  queen;  the  coronation  of  Bona 
parte  ;  the  capture  of  Paris,  and  the  restoration  of  the 
Bourbons.  All  these  he  speaks  of  with  the  coolness 
of  a  theatrical  critic;  and  I  question  whether  he  has 
not  been  gratified  by  each  in  its  turn ;  not  from  any 
inherent  love  of  tumult,  but  from  that  insatiable  appe 
tite  for  spectacle  which  prevails  among  the  inhabitants 
of  this  metropolis.  I  have  been  amused  with  a  farce, 
in  which  one  of  these  systematic  old  triflers  is  repre 
sented.  He  sings  a  song  detailing  his  whole  day's 
round  of  insignificant  occupations,  and  goes  to  bed 
delighted  with  the  idea  that  his  next  day  will  be  an 
exact  repetition  of  the  same  routine : 

Je  me  couche  le  soir, 
Enchante  de  pouvoir 
Recommencer  mon  train 
Le  lendemain 
Matin. 


THE  ENGLISHMAN  AT  PARIS         173 


THE  ENGLISHMAN  AT  PARIS 

In  another  part  of  the  hotel,  a  handsome  suite  of 
rooms  is  occupied  by  an  old  English  gentleman,  of 
great  probity,  some  understanding,  and  very  consider 
able  crustiness,  who  has  come  to  France  to  live  eco 
nomically.  He  has  a  very  fair  property,  but  his  wife, 
being  of  that  blessed  kind  compared  in  Scripture  to 
the  fruitful  vine,  has  overwhelmed  him  with  a  family 
of  buxom  daughters,  who  hang  clustering  about  him, 
ready  to  be  gathered  by  any  hand.  He  is  seldom  to  be 
seen  in  public  without  one  hanging  on  each  arm,  and 
smiling  on  all  the  world,  while  his  own  mouth  is 
drawn  down  at  each  corner  like  a  mastiff's,  with  in 
ternal  growling  at  everything  about  him.  He  adheres 
rigidly  to  English  fashion  in  dress,  and  trudges  about 
in  long  gaiters  and  broad-brimmed  hat;  while  his 
daughters  almost  overshadow  him  with  feathers, 
flowers,  and  French  bonnets. 

He  contrives  to  keep  up  an  atmosphere  of  English 
habits,  opinions,  and  prejudices,  and  to  carry  a  sem 
blance  of  London  into  the  very  heart  of  Paris.  His 
mornings  are  spent  at  Galignani's  news-room,  where 
he  forms  one  of  a  knot  of  inveterate  quidnuncs,  who 
read  the  same  articles  over  a  dozen  times  in  a  dozen 
different  papers.  He  generally  dines  in  company  with 
some  of  his  own  countrymen,  and  they  have  what  is 
called  a  "  comfortable  sitting "  after  dinner,  in  the 
English  fashion,  drinking  wine,  discussing  the  news 
of  the  London  papers,  and  canvassing  the  French 
character,  the  French  metropolis,  and  the  French  revo 
lution,  ending  with  a  unanimous  admission  of  English 
courage,  English  morality,  English  cookery,  English 
wealth,  the  magnitude  of  London,  and  the  ingratitude 
of  the  French. 

His  evenings  are  chiefly  spent  at  a  club  of  his  coun- 


174  SKETCHES  IN  PARIS 

trymen,  where  the  London  papers  are  taken.  Some 
times  his  daughters  entice  him  to  the  theatres,  but  not 
often.  He  abuses  French  tragedy,  as  all  fustian  and 
bombast,  Talma  as  a  ranter,  and  Duchesnois  as  a 
mere  termagant.  It  is  true  his  ear  is  not  sufficiently 
familiar  with  the  lauguage  to  understand  French  verse, 
and  he  generally  goes  to  sleep  during  the  performance. 
The  wit  of  the  French  comedy  is  flat  and  pointless 
to  him.  He  would  not  give  one  of  Munden's  wry 
faces,  or  Liston's  inexpressible  looks,  for  the  whole 
of  it. 

He  will  not  admit  that  Paris  has  any  advantage 
over  London.  The  Seine  is  a  muddy  rivulet  in  com 
parison  with  the  Thames ;  the  West  End  of  London 
surpasses  the  finest  parts  of  the  French  capital;  and 
on  some  one's  observing  that  there  was  a  very  thick 
fog  out  of  doors,  "  Pish !  "  said  he,  crustily,  "  it 's 
nothing  to  the  fogs  we  have  in  London !  " 

He  has  infinite  trouble  in  bringing  his  table  into 
anything  like  conformity  to  English  rule.  With  his 
liquors,  it  is  true,  he  is  tolerably  successful.  He  pro 
cures  London  porter  and  a  stock  of  port  and  sherry, 
at  considerable  expense,  for  he  observes  that  he  cannot 
stand  those  cursed  thin  French  wines;  they  dilute  his 
blood  so  much  as  to  give  him  the  rheumatism.  As  to 
their  white  wines,  he  stigmatizes  them  as  mere  sub 
stitutes  for  cider;  and  as  to  claret,  why  "  it  would  be 
port  if  it  could."  He  has  continual  quarrels  with  his 
French  cook,  whom  he  renders  wretched  by  insisting 
on  his  conforming  to  Mrs.  Glasse;  for  it  is  easier  to 
convert  a  Frenchman  from  his  religion  than  his  cook 
ery.  The  poor  fellow,  by  dint  of  repeated  efforts, 
once  brought  himself  to  serve  up  ros  bif  sufficiently 
raw  to  suit  what  he  considered  the  cannibal  taste  of 
his  master;  but  then  he  could  not  refrain,  at  the  last 
moment,  adding  some  exquisite  sauce,  that  put  the  old 
gentleman  in  a  fury. 


THE  ENGLISHMAN  AT  PARIS         175 

He  detests  wood-fires,  and  has  procured  a  quantity 
of  coal ;  but  not  having  a  grate,  he  is  obliged  to  burn 
it  on  the  hearth.  Here  he  sits  poking  and  stirring  the 
fire  with  one  end  of  a  tongs,  while  the  room  is  as 
murky  as  a  smithy;  railing  at  French  chimneys, 
French  masons,  and  French  architects ;  giving  a  poke 
at  the  end  of  every  sentence,  as  though  he  were  stirring 
up  the  very  bowels  of  the  delinquents  he  is  anathema 
tizing.  He  lives  in  a  state  militant  with  inanimate 
objects  around  him;  gets  into  high  dudgeon  with  doors 
and  casements  because  they  will  not  come  under  Eng 
lish  law,  and  has  implacable  feuds  with  sundry  re 
fractory  pieces  of  furniture.  Among  these  is  one  in 
particular  with  which  he  is  sure  to  have  a  high  quarrel 
every  time  he  goes  to  dress.  It  is  a  commode,  one  of 
those  smooth,  polished,  plausible  pieces  of  French  fur 
niture  that  have  the  perversity  of  five  hundred  devils. 
Each  drawer  has  a  will  of  its  own;  will  open  or  not, 
just  as  the  whim  takes  it,  and  sets  lock  and  key  at 
defiance.  Sometimes  a  drawer  will  refuse  to  yield  to 
either  persuasion  or  force,  and  will  part  with  both 
handles  rather  than  yield;  another  will  come  out  in 
the  most  coy  and  coquettish  manner  imaginable,  elbow 
ing  along,  zigzag,  one  corner  retreating  as  the  other 
advances,  making  a  thousand  difficulties  and  objections 
at  every  move,  until  the  old  gentleman,  out  of  all 
patience,  gives  a  sudden  jerk,  and  brings  drawer  and 
contents  into  the  middle  of  the  floor.  His  hostility 
to  this  unlucky  piece  of  furniture  increases  every  day, 
as  if  incensed  that  it  does  not  grow  better.  He  is  like 
the  fretful  invalid,  who  cursed  his  bed,  that  the  longer 
he  lay  the  harder  it  grew.  The  only  benefit  he  has 
derived  from  the  quarrel  is,  that  it  has  furnished  him 
with  a  crusty  joke,  which  he  utters  on  all  occasions. 
He  swears  that  a  French  commode  is  the  most  incom 
modious  thing  in  existence,  and  that  although  the 
nation  cannot  make  a  joint-stool  that  will  stand  steady, 


1 76  SKETCHES  IN  PARIS 

yet  they   are   always   talking   of    everything's   being 
perfectionee. 

His  servants  understand  his  humor,  and  avail  them 
selves  of  it.  He  was  one  day  disturbed  by  a  perti 
nacious  rattling  and  shaking  at  one  of  the  doors,  and 
bawled  out  in  an  angry  tone  to  know  the  cause  of  the 
disturbance.  "  Sir,"  said  the  footman,  testily,  "  it 's 
this  confounded  French  lock!"  "Ah!"  said  the  old 
gentleman,  pacified  by  this  hit  at  the  nation,  "  I  thought 
there  was  something  French  at  the  bottom  of  it ! " 


ENGLISH   AND   FRENCH   CHARACTER 

As  I  am  a  mere  looker-on  in  Europe,  and  hold  my 
self  as  much  as  possible  aloof  from  its  quarrels  and 
prejudices,  I  feel  something  like  one  overlooking  a 
game,  who,  without  any  great  skill  of  his  own,  can 
occasionally  perceive  the  blunders  of  much  abler 
players.  This  neutrality  of  feeling  enables  me  to  en 
joy  the  contrasts  of  character  presented  in  this  time 
of  general  peace,  when  the  various  people  of  Europe, 
who  have  so  long  been  sundered  by  wars,  are  brought 
together  and  placed  side  by  side  in  this  great  gathering- 
place  of  nations.  No  greater  contrast,  however,  is 
exhibited  than  that  of  the  French  and  English.  The 
peace  has  deluged  this  gay  capital  with  English  visi 
tors  of  all  ranks  and  conditions.  They  throng  every 
place  of  curiosity  and  amusement;  fill  the  public  gar 
dens,  the  galleries,  the  cafes,  saloons,  theatres ;  always 
herding  together,  never  associating  with  the  French. 
The  two  nations  are  like  two  threads  of  different  colors, 
tangled  together,  but  never  blended. 

In  fact,  they  present  a  continual  antithesis,  and  seem 
to  value  themselves  upon  being  unlike  each  other ;  yet 
each  have  their  peculiar  merits,  which  should  entitle 
them  to  each  other's  esteem.  The  French  intellect  is 


ENGLISH  AND  FRENCH  CHARACTER     177 

quick  and  active.  It  flashes  its  way  into  a  subject  with 
the  rapidity  of  lightning,  seizes  upon  remote  conclu 
sions  with  a  sudden  bound,  and  its  deductions  are 
almost  intuitive.  The  English  intellect  is  less  rapid, 
but  more  persevering;  less  sudden,  but  more  sure  in 
its  deductions.  The  quickness  and  mobility  of  the 
French  enable  them  to  find  enjoyment  in  the  multi 
plicity  of  sensations.  They  speak  and  act  more  from 
immediate  impressions  than  from  reflection  and  medi 
tation.  They  are  therefore  more  social  and  communi 
cative,  more  fond  of  society  and  of  places  of  public 
resort  and  amusement.  An  Englishman  is  more  re 
flective  in  his  habits.  He  lives  in  the  world  of  his 
own  thoughts,  and  seems  more  self -existent  and  self- 
dependent.  He  loves  the  quiet  of  his  own  apartment ; 
even  when  abroad,  he  in  a  manner  makes  a  little  soli 
tude  around  him  by  his  silence  and  reserve ;  he  moves 
about  shy  and  solitary,  and  as  it  were,  buttoned  up, 
body  and  soul. 

The  French  are  great  optimists;  they  seize  upon 
every  good  as  it  flies,  and  revel  in  the  passing  pleasure. 
The  Englishman  is  too  apt  to  neglect  the  present  good 
in  preparing  against  the  possible  evil.  However  adver 
sities  may  lower,  let  the  sun  shine  but  for  a  moment, 
and  forth  sallies  the  mercurial  Frenchman,  in  holiday 
dress  and  holiday  spirits,  gay  as  a  butterfly,  as  though 
his  sunshine  were  perpetual;  but  let  the  sun  beam 
never  so  brightly,  so  there  be  but  a  cloud  in  the  hori 
zon,  the  wary  Englishman  ventures  forth  distrustfully, 
with  his  umbrella  in  his  hand. 

The  Frenchman  has  a  wonderful  facility  at  turning 
small  things  to  advantage.  No  one  can  be  gay  and 
luxurious  on  smaller  means;  no  one  requires  less  ex 
pense  to  be  happy.  He  practises  a  kind  of  gilding  in 
his  style  of  living,  and  hammers  out  every  guinea  into 
gold-leaf.  The  Englishman,  on  the  contrary,  is  ex 
pensive  in  his  habits  and  expensive  in  his  enjoyments. 


1 78  SKETCHES  IN  PARIS 

He  values  everything,  whether  useful  or  ornamental, 
by  what  it  costs.  He  has  no  satisfaction  in  show,  un 
less  it  be  solid  and  complete.  Everything  goes  with 
him  by  the  square  foot.  Whatever  display  he  makes, 
the  depth  is  sure  to  equal  the  surface. 

The  Frenchman's  habitation,  like  himself,  is  open, 
cheerful,  bustling,  and  noisy.  He  lives  in  a  part  of  a 
great  hotel,  with  wide  portal,  paved  court,  a  spacious 
dirty  stone  staircase,  and  a  family  on  every  floor.  All 
is  clatter  and  chatter.  He  is  good-humored  and  talk 
ative  with  his  servants,  sociable  with  his  neighbors, 
and  complaisant  to  all  the  world.  Anybody  has  access 
to  himself  and  his  apartments;  his  very  bedroom  is 
open  to  visitors,  whatever  may  be  its  state  of  confu 
sion;  and  all  this  not  from  any  peculiarly  hospitable 
feeling,  but  from  that  communicative  habit  which  pre 
dominates  over  his  character. 

The  Englishman,  on  the  contrary,  ensconces  himself 
in  a  snug  brick  mansion,  which  he  has  all  to  himself ; 
locks  the  front-door;  puts  broken  bottles  along  his 
walls,  and  spring-guns  and  man-traps  in  his  gardens; 
shrouds  himself  with  trees  and  window-curtains;  ex 
ults  in  his  quiet  and  privacy,  and  seems  disposed  to 
keep  out  noise,  daylight,  and  company.  His  house, 
like  himself,  has  a  reserved,  inhospitable  exterior;  yet 
whoever  gains  admittance  is  apt  to  find  a  warm  heart 
and  warm  fireside  within. 

•The  French  excel  in  wit,  the  English  in  humor;  the 
French  have  gayer  fancy,  the  English  richer  imagina 
tions.  The  former  are  full  of  sensibility,  easily  moved, 
and  prone  to  sudden  and  great  excitement;  but  their 
excitement  is  not  durable ;  the  English  are  more  phleg 
matic,  not  so  readily  affected,  but  capable  of  being 
aroused  to  great  enthusiasm.  The  faults  of  these  oppo 
site  temperaments  are,  that  the  vivacity  of  the  French 
is  apt  to  sparkle  up  and  be  frothy,  the  gravity  of  the 
English  to  settle  down  and  grow  muddy.  When  the 


TUILERIES  AND  WINDSOR  CASTLE     179 

two  characters  can  be  fixed  in  a  medium,  the  French 
kept  from  effervescence  and  the  English  from  stagna 
tion,  both  will  be  found  excellent. 

This  contrast  of  character  may  also  be  noticed  in  the 
great  concerns  of  the  two  nations.  The  ardent  French 
man  is  all  for  military  renown:  he  fights  for  glory, 
that  is  to  say,  for  success  in  arms.  For,  provided  the 
national  flag  be  victorious,  he  cares  little  about  the 
expense,  the  injustice,  or  the  inutility  of  the  war.  It 
is  wonderful  how  the  poorest  Frenchman  will  revel 
on  a  triumphant  bulletin;  a  great  victory  is  meat 
and  drink  to  him ;  and  at  the  sight  of  a  military  sov 
ereign,  bringing  home  captured  cannon  and  captured 
standards,  he  throws  up  his  greasy  cap  in  the  air, 
and  is  ready  to  jump  out  of  his  wooden  shoes  for 

joy- 
John  Bull,  on  the  contrary,  is  a  reasoning,  consider 
ate  person.  If  he  does  wrong,  it  is  in  the  most  rational 
way  imaginable.  He  fights  because  the  good  of  the 
world  requires  it.  He  is  a  moral  person,  and  makes 
war  upon  his  neighbor  for  the  maintenance  of  peace 
and  good  order,  and  sound  principles.  He  is  a  money- 
making  personage,  and  fights  for  the  prosperity  of 
commerce  and  manufactures.  Thus  the  two  nations 
have  been  fighting,  time  out  of  mind,  for  glory  and 
good.  The  French,  in  pursuit  of  glory,  have  had  their 
capital  twice  taken;  and  John,  in  pursuit  of  good,  has 
run  himself  over  head  and  ears  in  debt. 


THE    TUILERIES    AND    WINDSOR    CASTLE 

I  have  sometimes  fancied  I  could  discover  national 
characteristics  in  national  edifices.  In  the  Chateau  of 
the  Tuileries,  for  instance,  I  perceive  the  same  jumble 
of  contrarieties  that  marks  the  French  character;  the 
same  whimsical  mixture  of  the  great  and  the  little,  the 


i8o  SKETCHES  IN  PARIS 

splendid  and  the  paltry,  the  sublime  and  the  grotesque. 
On  visiting  this  famous  pile,  the  first  thing  that  strikes 
both  eye  and  ear  is  military  display.  The  courts  glitter 
with  steel-clad  soldiery,  and  resound  with  tramp  of 
horse,  the  roll  of  drum,  and  the  bray  of  trumpet.  Dis 
mounted  guardsmen  patrol  its  arcades,  with  loaded 
carbines,  jingling  spurs,  and  clanking  sabres.  Gigantic 
grenadiers  are  posted  about  its  staircases;  young 
officers  of  the  guards  loll  from  the  balconies,  or  lounge 
in  groups  upon  the  terraces ;  and  the  gleam  of  bayonet 
from  window  to  window  shows  that  sentinels  are  pac 
ing  up  and  down  the  corridors  and  antechambers.  The 
first  floor  is  brilliant  with  the  splendors  of  a  court. 
French  taste  has  tasked  itself  in  adorning  the  sump 
tuous  suites  of  apartments;  nor  are  the  gilded  chapel 
and  splendid  theatre  forgotten,  where  Piety  and  Pleas 
ure  are  next-door  neighbors,  and  harmonize  together 
with  perfect  French  bienseance. 

Mingled  up  with  all  this  regal  and  military  magnifi 
cence  is  a  world  of  whimsical  and  makeshift  detail. 
A  great  part  of  the  huge  edifice  is  cut  up  into  little 
chambers  and  nestling-places  for  retainers  of  the  court, 
dependants  on  retainers,  and  hangers-on  of  depend 
ants.  Some  are  squeezed  into  narrow  entre-sols,  those 
low,  dark,  intermediate  slices  of  apartments  between 
floors,  the  inhabitants  of  which  seem  shoved  in  edge 
wise,  like  books  between  narrow  shelves;  others  are 
perched,  like  swallows,  under  the  eaves;  the  high 
roofs,  too,  which  are  as  tall  and  steep  as  a  French 
cocked  hat,  have  rows  of  little  dormer-windows,  tier 
above  tier,  just  large  enough  to  admit  light  and  air 
for  some  dormitory,  and  to  enable  its  occupant  to  peep 
out  at  the  sky.  Even  to  the  very  ridge  of  the  roof  may 
be  seen,  here  and  there,  one  of  these  air-holes,  with  a 
stove-pipe  beside  it,  to  carry  off  the  smoke  from  the 
handful  of  fuel  with  which  its  weazen-faced  tenant 
simmers  his  demi-tasse  of  coffee. 


TUILERIES  AND  WINDSOR  CASTLE     181 

On  approaching  the  palace  from  the  Pont  Royal, 
you  take  in  at  a  glance  all  the  various  strata  of  inhabit 
ants  :  the  garreteer  in  the  roof,  the  retainer  in  the 
entre-sol,  the  courtiers  at  the  casements  of  the  royal 
apartments;  while  on  the  ground-floor  a  steam  of 
savory  odors,  and  a  score  or  two  of  cooks,  in  white 
caps,  bobbing  their  heads  about  the  windows,  betray 
that  scientific  and  all-important  laboratory,  the  royal 
kitchen. 

Go  into  the  grand  antechamber  of  the  royal  apart 
ments  on  Sunday,  and  see  the  mixture  of  Old  and  New 
France :  the  old  emigres,  returned  with  the  Bourbons ; 
little,  withered,  spindle-shanked  old  noblemen,  clad  in 
court-dresses,  that  figured  in  these  saloons  before  the 
revolution,  and  have  been  carefully  treasured  up  during 
their  exile;  with  the  solitaires  and  ailes  de  pigeon  of 
former  days,  and  the  court-swords  strutting  out  be 
hind,  like  pins  stuck  through  dry  beetles.  See  them 
haunting  the  scenes  of  their  former  splendor,  in  hopes 
of  a  restitution  of  estates,  like  ghosts  haunting  the 
vicinity  of  buried  treasure ;  while  around  them  you  see 
Young  France,  grown  up  in  the  fighting  school  of 
Napoleon,  equipped  en  militaire:  tall,  hardy,  frank, 
vigorous,  sunburnt,  fierce-whiskered;  with  tramping 
boots,  towering  crests,  and  glittering  breastplates. 

It  is  incredible  the  number  of  ancient  and  hereditary 
feeders  on  royalty  said  to  be  housed  in  this  establish 
ment.  Indeed,  all  the  royal  palaces  abound  with  noble 
families  returned  from  exile,  and  who  have  nestling- 
places  allotted  them  while  they  await  the  restoration 
of  their  estates,  or  the  much-talked-of  law,  indemnity. 
Some  of  them  have  fine  quarters,  but  poor  living. 
Some  families  have  but  five  or  six  hundred  francs  a 
year,  and  all  their  retinue  consists  of  a  servant-woman. 
With  all  this,  they  maintain  their  old  aristocratical 
hauteur,  look  down  with  vast  contempt  upon  the  opu 
lent  families  which  have  risen  since  the  revolution; 


182  SKETCHES  IN  PARIS 

stigmatize  them  all  as  parvenus  or  upstarts,  and  refuse 
to  visit  them. 

In  regarding  the  exterior  of  the  Tuileries,  with  all 
its  outward  signs  of  internal  populousness,  I  have  often 
thought  what  a  rare  sight  it  would  be  to  see  it  sud 
denly  unroofed,  and  all  its  nooks  and  corners  laid 
open  to  the  day.  It  would  be  like  turning  up  the  stump 
of  an  old  tree,  and  dislodging  the  world  of  grubs  and 
ants  and  beetles  lodged  beneath.  Indeed,  there  is 
a  scandalous  anecdote  current,  that,  in  the  time  of  one 
of  the  petty  plots,  when  petards  were  exploded  under 
the  windows  of  the  Tuileries,  the  police  made  a  sud 
den  investigation  of  the  palace  at  four  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  when  a  scene  of  the  most  whimsical  con 
fusion  ensued.  Hosts  of  supernumerary  inhabitants 
were  found  foisted  into  the  huge  edifice:  every  rat- 
hole  had  its  occupant;  and  places  which  had  been 
considered  as  tenanted  only  by  spiders,  were  found 
crowded  with  a  surreptitious  population.  It  is  added, 
that  many  ludicrous  accidents  occurred;  great  scam 
pering  and  slamming  of  doors,  and  whisking  away  in 
night-gowns  and  slippers;  and  several  persons,  who 
were  found  by  accident  in  their  neighbors'  chambers, 
evinced  indubitable  astonishment  at  the  circumstance. 

As  I  have  fancied  I  could  read  the  French  character 
in  the  national  palace  of  the  Tuileries,  so  I  have  pic 
tured  to  myself  some  of  the  traits  of  John  Bull  in  his 
royal  abode  of  Windsor  Castle.  The  Tuileries,  out 
wardly  a  peaceful  palace,  is  in  effect  a  swaggering 
military  hold;  while  the  old  castle,  on  the  contrary, 
in  spite  of  its  bullying  look,  is  completely  under  petti 
coat  government.  Every  corner  and  nook  is  built  up 
into  some  snug,  cosy  nestling-place,  some  "  procreant 
cradle,"  not  tenanted  by  meagre  expectants  or  whis 
kered  warriors,  but  by  sleek  placemen;  knowing  real- 
izers  of  present  pay  and  present  pudding;  who  seem 
placed  there  not  to  kill  and  destroy,  but  to  breed  and 


THE  FIELD  OF  WATERLOO  183 

multiply.  Nursery-maids  and  children  shine  with  rosy 
faces  at  the  windows,  and  swarm  about  the  courts  and 
terraces.  The  very  soldiery  have  a  pacific  look,  and, 
when  off  duty,  may  be  seen  loitering  about  the  place 
with  the  nursery-maids;  not  making  love  to  them  in 
the  gay  gallant  style  of  the  French  soldiery,  but  with 
infinite  bonhommie  aiding  them  to  take  care  of  the 
broods  of  children. 

Though  the  old  castle  is  in  decay,  everything  about 
it  thrives ;  the  very  crevices  of  the  walls  are  tenanted 
by  swallows,  rooks,  and  pigeons,  all  sure  of  quiet 
lodgment ;  the  ivy  strikes  its  roots  deep  in  the  fissures, 
and  flourishes  about  the  mouldering  tower.1  Thus  it 
is  with  honest  John:  according  to  his  own  account, 
he  is  ever  going  to  ruin,  yet  everything  that  lives  on 
him  thrives  and  waxes  fat.  He  would  fain  be  a  soldier, 
and  swagger  like  his  neighbors;  but  his  domestic, 
quiet-loving,  uxorious  nature  continually  gets  the 
upper  hand ;  and  though  he  may  mount  his  helmet  and 
gird  on  his  sword,  yet  he  is  apt  to  sink  into  the  plod 
ding,  painstaking  father  of  a  family,  with  a  troop  of 
children  at  his  heels,  and  his  womenkind  hanging  on 
each  arm. 

THE   FIELD   OF  WATERLOO 

I  have  spoken  heretofore  with  some  levity  of  the 
contrast  that  exists  between  the  English  and  French 
character;  but  it  deserves  more  serious  consideration. 
They  are  the  two  great  nations  of  modern  times  most 
diametrically  opposed,  and  most  worthy  of  each  other's 
rivalry;  essentially  distinct  in  their  characters,  excel 
ling  in  opposite  qualities,  and  reflecting  lustre  on  each 
other  by  their  very  opposition.  In  nothing  is  this  con 
trast  more  strikingly  evinced  than  in  their  military 

1  The  above  sketch  was  written  before  the  thorough  repairs 
and  magnificent  additions  made  of  late  years  to  Windsor  Castle. 


1 84  SKETCHES  IN   PARIS 

conduct.  For  ages  have  they  been  contending,  and  for 
ages  have  they  crowded  each  other's  history  with  acts 
of  splendid  heroism.  Take  the  battle  of  Waterloo, 
for  instance,  the  last  and  most  memorable  trial  of  their 
rival  prowess.  Nothing  could  surpass  the  brilliant 
daring  on  the  one  side,  and  the  steadfast  enduring  on 
the  other.  The  French  cavalry  broke  like  waves  on  the 
compact  squares  of  English  infantry.  They  were  seen 
galloping  round  those  serried  walls  of  men,  seeking  in 
vain  for  an  entrance ;  tossing  their  arms  in  the  air,  in 
the  heat  of  their  enthusiasm,  and  braving  the  whole 
front  of  battle.  The  British  troops,  on  the  other  hand, 
forbidden  to  move  or  fire,  stood  firm  and  enduring. 
Their  columns  were  ripped  up  by  canonry ;  whole  rows 
were  swept  down  at  a  shot ;  the  survivors  closed  their 
ranks,  and  stood  firm.  In  this  way  many  columns 
stood  through  the  pelting  of  the  iron  tempest  without 
firing  a  shot,  without  any  action  to  stir  their  blood  or 
excite  their  spirits.  Death  thinned  their  ranks,  but 
could  not  shake  their  souls. 

A  beautiful  instance  of  the  quick  and  generous  im 
pulses  to  which  the  French  are  prone  is  given  in  the 
case  of  a  French  cavalier,  in  the  hottest  of  the  action, 
charging  furiously  upon  a  British  officer,  but,  perceiv 
ing  in  the  moment  of  assault  that  his  adversary  had 
lost  his  sword-arm,  dropping  the  point  of  his  sabre, 
and  courteously  riding  on.  Peace  be  with  that  gener 
ous  warrior,  whatever  were  his  fate!  If  he  went  down 
in  the  storm  of  battle,  with  the  foundering  fortunes 
of  his  chieftain,  may  the  turf  of  Waterloo  grow  green 
above  his  grave !  —  and  happier  far  would  be  the  fate 
of  such  a  spirit  to  sink  amidst  the  tempest,  unconscious 
of  defeat,  than  to  survive  and  mourn  over  the  blighted 
laurels  of  his  country. 

In  this  way  the  two  armies  fought  through  a  long 
and  bloody  day,  —  the  French  with  enthusiastic  valor, 
the  English  with  cool,  inflexible  courage,  until  Fate, 


THE  FIELD  OF  WATERLOO  185 

as  if  to  leave  the  question  of  superiority  still  undecided 
between  two  such  adversaries,  brought  up  the  Prus 
sians  to  decide  the  fortunes  of  the  field. 

It  was  several  years  afterward  that  I  visited  the 
field  of  Waterloo.  The  ploughshare  had  been  busy 
with  its  oblivious  labors,  and  the  frequent  harvest  had 
nearly  obliterated  the  vestiges  of  war.  Still  the  black 
ened  ruins  of  Hoguemont  stood,  a  monumental  pile 
to  mark  the  violence  of  this  vehement  struggle.  Its 
broken  walls,  pierced  by  bullets  and  shattered  by  ex 
plosions,  showed  the  deadly  strife  that  had  taken  place 
within,  when  Gaul  and  Briton,  hemmed  in  between 
narrow  walls,  hand  to  hand  and  foot  to  foot,  fought 
from  garden  to  court-yard,  from  court-yard  to  cham 
ber,  with  intense  and  concentrated  rivalship.  Columns 
of  smoke  towered  from  this  vortex  of  battle  as  from 
a  volcano :  "  it  was,"  said  my  guide,  "  like  a  little  hell 
upon  earth."  Not  far  off,  two  or  three  broad  spots 
of  rank,  unwholesome  green  still  marked  the  places 
where  these  rival  warriors,  after  their  fierce  and  fitful 
struggle,  slept  quietly  together  in  the  lap  of  their  com 
mon  mother  earth.  Over  all  the  rest  of  the  field  peace 
had  resumed  its  sway.  The  thoughtless  whistle  of  the 
peasant  floated  on  the  air  instead  of  the  trumpet's 
clangor;  the  team  slowly  labored  up  the  hill-side  once 
shaken  by  the  hoofs  of  rushing  squadrons;  and  wide 
fields  of  corn  waved  peacefully  over  the  soldiers'  grave, 
as  summer  seas  dimple  over  the  place  where  the  tall 
ship  lies  buried. 

To  the  foregoing  desultory  notes  on  the  French  mili 
tary  character,  let  me  append  a  few  traits  which  I 
picked  up  verbally  in  one  of  the  French  provinces. 
They  may  have  already  appeared  in  print,  but  I  have 
never  met  with  them. 

At  the  breaking  out  of  the  revolution,  when  so  many 
of  the  old  families  emigrated,  a  descendant  of  the 


186  SKETCHES  IN  PARIS 

great  Turenne,  by  the  name  of  De  Latour  D'Auvergne, 
refused  to  accompany  his  relations,  and  entered  into 
the  republican  army.  He  served  in  all  the  campaigns 
of  the  revolution,  distinguished  himself  by  his  valor, 
his  accomplishments,  and  his  generous  spirit,  and  might 
have  risen  to  fortune  and  to  the  highest  honors.  He 
refused,  however,  all  rank  in  the  army  above  that  of 
captain,  and  would  receive  no  recompense  for  his 
achievements  but  a  sword  of  honor.  Napoleon,  in 
testimony  of  his  merits,  gave  him  the  title  of  Premier 
Grenadier  de  France,  (First  Grenadier  of  France,) 
which  was  the  only  title  he  would  ever  bear.  He  was 
killed  in  Germany  at  the  battle  of  Neuburg.  To  honor 
his  memory,  his  place  was  always  retained  in  his  regi 
ment  as  if  he  still  occupied  it;  and  whenever  the  regi 
ment  was  mustered,  and  the  name  of  De  Latour 
D'Auvergne  was  called  out,  the  reply  was :  "  Dead  on 
the  field  of  honor !  " 


PARIS    AT    THE    RESTORATION 

Paris  presented  a  singular  aspect  just  after  the  down 
fall  of  Napoleon  and  the  restoration  of  the  Bourbons. 
It  was  filled  with  a  restless,  roaming  population,  —  a 
dark,  sallow  race,  with  fierce  moustaches,  black  cravats, 
and  feverish,  menacing  looks,  —  men  suddenly  thrown 
out  of  employ  by  the  return  of  peace;  officers  cut 
short  in  their  career,  and  cast  loose  with  scanty  means, 
many  of  them  in  utter  indigence,  upon  the  world ;  the 
broken  elements  of  armies.  They  haunted  the  places 
of  public  resort,  like  restless,  unhappy  spirits,  taking 
no  pleasure;  hanging  about  like  lowering  clouds  that 
linger  after  a  storm,  and  giving  a  singular  air  of  gloom 
to  this  otherwise  gay  metropolis. 

The  vaunted  courtesy  of  the  old  school,  the  smooth 
urbanity  that  prevailed  in  former  days  of  settled  gov- 


PARIS  AT  THE  RESTORATION        187 

ernment  and  long-established  aristocracy,  had  disap 
peared  amidst  the  savage  republicanism  of  the  revo 
lution  and  the  military  furor  of  the  empire;  recent 
reverses  had  stung  the  national  vanity  to  the  quick, 
and  English  travellers,  who  crowded  to  Paris  on  the 
return  of  peace,  expecting  to  meet  with  a  gay,  good- 
humored,  complaisant  populace,  such  as  existed  in  the 
time  of  the  "  Sentimental  Journey,"  were  surprised  at 
finding  them  irritable  and  fractious,  quick  at  fancying 
affronts,  and  not  unapt  to  offer  insults.  They  accord 
ingly  inveighed  with  heat  and  bitterness  at  the  rude 
ness  they  experienced  in  the  French  metropolis;  yet 
what  better  had  they  to  expect  ?  Had  Charles  II.  been 
reinstated  in  his  kingdom  by  the  valor  of  French 
troops ;  had  he  been  wheeled  triumphantly  to  London 
over  the  trampled  bodies  and  trampled  standards  of 
England's  bravest  sons ;  had  a  French  general  dictated 
to  the  English  capital,  and  a  French  army  been  quar 
tered  in  Hyde  Park ;  had  Paris  poured  forth  its  motley 
population,  and  the  wealthy  bourgeoisie  of  every 
French  trading  town  swarmed  to  London,  crowding 
its  squares,  filling  its  streets  with  their  equipages, 
thronging  its  fashionable  hotels  and  places  of  amuse 
ments,  elbowing  its  impoverished  nobility  out  of  their 
palaces  and  opera-boxes,  and  looking  down  on  the 
humiliated  inhabitants  as  a  conquered  people;  in  such 
a  reverse  of  the  case,  what  degree  of  courtesy  would 
the  populace  of  London  have  been  apt  to  exercise  to 
ward  their  visitors  ? * 

On  the  contrary,  I  have  always  admired  the  degree 
of  magnanimity  exhibited  by  the  French  on  the  occu 
pation  of  their  capital  by  the  English.  When  we  con 
sider  the  military  ambition  of  this  nation,  its  love  of 

1  The  above  remarks  were  suggested  by  a  conversation  with  the 
late  Mr.  Canning,  whom  the  author  met  in  Paris,  and  who  ex 
pressed  himself  in  the  most  liberal  way  concerning  the  magnanim 
ity  of  the  French  on  the  occupation  of  their  capital  by  strangers. 


i88  SKETCHES  IN  PARIS 

glory,  the  splendid  height  to  which  its  renown  in  arms 
had  recently  been  carried,  and,  with  these,  the  tremen 
dous  reverses  it  had  just  undergone,  its  armies  shat 
tered,  annihilated,  its  capital  captured,  garrisoned,  and 
overrun,  and  that  too  by  its  ancient  rival,  the  English, 
toward  whom  it  had  cherished  for  centuries  a  jealous 
and  almost  religious  hostility,  could  we  have  wondered 
if  the  tiger-spirit  of  this  fiery  people  had  broken  out 
in  bloody  feuds  and  deadly  quarrels,  and  that  they  had 
sought  to  rid  themselves  in  any  way  of  their  invaders? 
But  it  is  cowardly  nations  only,  those  who  dare  not 
wield  the  sword,  that  revenge  themselves  with  the  lurk 
ing  dagger.  There  were  no  assassinations  in  Paris. 
The  French  had  fought  valiantly,  desperately,  in  the 
field;  but,  when  valor  was  no  longer  of  avail,  they 
submitted,  like  gallant  men,  to  a  fate  they  could  not 
withstand.  Some  instances  of  insult  from  the  popu 
lace  were  experienced  by  their  English  visitors;  some 
personal  rencontres  which  led  to  duels  did  take  place; 
but  these  smacked  of  open  and  honorable  hostility.  No 
instances  of  lurking  and  perfidious  revenge  occurred; 
and  the  British  soldier  patrolled  the  streets  of  Paris 
safe  from  treacherous  assault. 

If  the  English  met  with  harshness  and  repulse  in 
social  intercourse,  it  was  in  some  degree  a  proof  that 
the  people  are  more  sincere  than  has  been  represented. 
The  emigrants  who  had  just  returned  were  not  yet  re 
instated.  Society  was  constituted  of  those  who  had 
flourished  under  the  late  regime,  —  the  newly  ennobled, 
the  recently  enriched,  who  felt  their  prosperity  and 
their  consequence  endangered  by  this  change  of  things. 
The  broken-down  officer,  who  saw  his  glory  tarnished, 
his  fortune  ruined,  his  occupation  gone,  could  not  be 
expected  to  look  with  complacency  upon  the  authors 
of  his  downfall.  The  English  visitor,  flushed  with 
health  and  wealth  and  victory,  could  little  enter  into 
the  feelings  of  the  blighted  warrior,  scarred  with  a 


PARIS  AT  THE  RESTORATION        189 

hundred  battles,  an  exile  from  the  camp,  broken  in  con 
stitution  by  the  wars,  impoverished  by  the  peace,  and 
cast  back,  a  needy  stranger  in  the  splendid  but  captured 
metropolis  of  his  country. 

Oh !  who  can  tell  what  heroes  feel 
When  all  but  life  and  honor's  lost! 

And  here  let  me  notice  the  conduct  of  the  French 
soldiery  on  the  dismemberment  of  the  army  of  the 
Loire,  when  two  hundred  thousand  men  were  suddenly 
thrown  out  of  employ;  —  men  who  had  been  brought 
up  to  the  camp,  and  scarce  knew  any  other  home.  Few 
in  civil,  peaceful  life  are  aware  of  the  severe  trial  to 
the  feelings  that  takes  place  on  the  dissolution  of  a 
regiment.  There  is  a  fraternity  in  arms.  The  com 
munity  of  dangers,  hardships,  enjoyments;  the  par 
ticipation  in  battles  and  victories;  the  companionship 
in  adventures,  at  a  time  of  life  when  men's  feelings 
are  most  fresh,  susceptible,  and  ardent;  all  these  bind 
the  members  of  a  regiment  strongly  together.  To 
them  the  regiment  is  friends,  family,  home.  They 
identify  themselves  with  its  fortunes,  its  glories,  its 
disgraces.  Imagine  this  romantic  tie  suddenly  dis 
solved  ;  the  regiment  broken  up ;  the  occupation  of  its 
members  gone;  their  military  pride  mortified;  the 
career  of  glory  closed  behind  them ;  that  of  obscurity, 
dependence,  want,  neglect,  perhaps  beggary,  before 
them.  Such  was  the  case  with  the  soldiers  of  the  army 
of  the  Loire.  They  were  sent  off  in  squads,  with  offi 
cers,  to  the  principal  towns,  where  they  were  to  be  dis 
armed  and  discharged.  In  this  way  they  passed 
through  the  country  with  arms  in  their  hands,  often 
exposed  to  slights  and  scoffs,  to  hunger  and  various 
hardships  and  privations ;  but  they  conducted  them 
selves  magnanimously,  without  any  of  those  outbreaks 
of  violence  and  wrong  that  so  often  attend  the  di§- 
memberment  of  armies, 


190  SKETCHES  IN  PARIS 

The  few  years  that  have  elapsed  since  the  time  above 
alluded  to  have  already  had  their  effect.  The  proud 
and  angry  spirits  which  then  roamed  about  Paris  un 
employed  have  cooled  down  and  found  occupation. 
The  national  character  begins  to  recover  its  old  chan 
nels,  though  worn  deeper  by  recent  torrents.  The 
natural  urbanity  of  the  French  begins  to  find  its  way, 
like  oil,  to  the  surface,  though  there  still  remains  a 
degree  of  roughness  and  bluntness  of  manner,  partly 
real,  and  partly  affected,  by  such  as  imagine  it  to  in 
dicate  force  and  frankness.  The  events  of  the  last 
thirty  years  have  rendered  the  French  a  more  reflect 
ing  people.  They  have  acquired  greater  independence 
of  mind  and  strength  of  judgment,  together  with  a  por 
tion  of  that  prudence  which  results  from  experiencing 
the  dangerous  consequences  of  excesses.  However  that 
period  may  have  been  stained  by  crimes  and  filled  with 
extravagances,  the  French  have  certainly  come  out  of 
it  a  greater  nation  than  before.  One  of  their  own 
philosophers  observes,  that  in  one  or  two  generations 
the  nation  will  probably  combine  the  ease  and  elegance 
of  the  old  character  with  force  and  solidity.  They 
were  light,  he  says,  before  the  revolution ;  then  wild 
and  savage;  they  have  become  more  thoughtful  and 
reflective.  It  is  only  old  Frenchmen,  nowadays,  that 
are  gay  and  trivial;  the  young  are  very  serious 
personages. 

P.  S.  —  In  the  course  of  a  morning's  walk,  about 
the  time  the  above  remarks  were  written,  I  observed 
the  Duke  of  Wellington,  who  was  on  a  brief  visit  to 
Paris.  He  was  alone,  simply  attired  in  a  blue  frock, 
with  an  umbrella  under  his  arm  and  his  hat  drawn  over 
his  eyes,  and  sauntering  across  the  Place  Vendome, 
close  by  the  column  of  Napoleon.  He  gave  a  glance 
up  at  the  column  as  he  passed,  and  continued  his  loiter 
ing  way  up  the  Rue  de  la  Paix ;  stopping  occasionally 


A  CONTENTED  MAN  191 

to  gaze  in  at  the  shop-windows ;  elbowed  now  and  then 
by  other  gazers,  who  little  suspected  that  the  quiet,  loung 
ing  individual  they  were  jostling  so  unceremoniously 
was  the  conqueror  who  had  twice  entered  their  capital 
victoriously,  had  controlled  the  destinies  of  the  nation, 
and  eclipsed  the  glory  of  the  military  idol  at  the  base  of 
whose  column  he  was  thus  negligently  sauntering. 

Some  years  afterwards  I  was  at  an  evening's  enter 
tainment  given  by  the  duke  at  Apsley  House,  to  Wil 
liam  IV.  The  duke  had  manifested  his  admiration  of 
his  great  adversary  by  having  portraits  of  him  in  dif 
ferent  parts  of  the  house.  At  the  bottom  of  the  grand 
staircase  stood  the  colossal  statue  of  the  Emperor,  by 
Canova.  It  was  of  marble,  in  the  antique  style,  with 
one  arm  partly  extended,  holding  a  figure  of  victory. 
Over  this  arm  the  ladies,  in  tripping  up-stairs  to  the 
ball,  had  thrown  their  shawls.  It  was  a  singular  office 
for  the  statue  of  Napoleon  to  perform  in  the  mansion 
of  the  Duke  of  Wellington ! 

Imperial  Caesar  dead,  and  turned  to  clay,  etc.,  etc. 


A  CONTENTED  MAN 

IN  the  garden  of  the  Tuileries  there  is  a  sunny  corner 
under  the  wall  of  a  terrace  which  fronts  the  south. 
Along  the  wall  is  a  range  of  benches  commanding  a 
view  of  the  walks  and  avenues  of  the  garden.  This 
genial  nook  is  a  place  of  great  resort  in  the  latter  part 
of  autumn,  and  in  fine  days  in  winter,  as  it  seems  to 
retain  the  flavor  of  departed  summer.  On  a  calm, 
bright  morning,  it  is  quite  alive  with  nursery-maids 
and  their  playful  little  charges.  Hither  also  resort  a 
number  of  ancient  ladies  and  gentlemen,  who,  with 
laudable  thrift  in  small  pleasures  and  small  expenses, 


192  A  CONTENTED  MAN 

for  which  the  French  are  to  be  noted,  come  here  to 
enjoy  sunshine  and  save  firewood.  Here  may  often 
be  seen  some  cavalier  of  the  old  school,  when  the  sun 
beams  have  warmed  his  blood  into  something  like  a 
glow,  fluttering  about  like  a  frost-bitten  moth  thawed 
before  the  fire,  putting  forth  a  feeble  show  of  gallantry 
among  the  antiquated  dames,  and  now  and  then  eying 
the  buxom  nursery-maids  with  what  might  almost  be 
mistaken  for  an  air  of  libertinism. 

Among  the  habitual  frequenters  of  this  place  I  had 
often  remarked  an  old  gentleman  whose  dress  was  de 
cidedly  anti-revolutional.  He  wore  the  three-cornered 
cocked  hat  of  the  ancien  regime;  his  hair  was  frizzed 
over  each  ear  into  ailes  de  pigeon,  a  style  strongly  savor 
ing  of  Bourbonism ;  and  a  queue  stuck  out  behind,  the 
loyalty  of  which  was  not  to  be  disputed.  His  dress, 
though  ancient,  had  an  air  of  decayed  gentility,  and  I 
observed  that  he  took  his  snuff  out  of  an  elegant  though 
old-fashioned  gold  box.  He  appeared  to  be  the  most 
popular  man  on  the  walk.  He  had  a  compliment  for 
every  old  lady,  he  kissed  every  child,  and  he  patted 
every  little  dog  on  the  head ;  for  children  and  little 
dogs  are  very  important  members  of  society  in  France. 
I  must  observe,  however,  that  he  seldom  kissed  a  child 
without,  at  the  same  time,  pinching  the  nursery-maid's 
cheek;  a  Frenchman  of  the  old  school  never  forgets 
his  devoirs  to  the  sex. 

I  had  taken  a  liking  to  this  old  gentleman.  There 
was  an  habitual  expression  of  benevolence  in  his  face, 
which  I  have  very  frequently  remarked  in  these  relics 
of  the  politer  days  of  France.  The  constant  inter 
change  of  those  thousand  little  courtesies  which  im 
perceptibly  sweeten  life,  has  a  happy  effect  upon  the 
features,  and  spreads  a  mellow  evening  charm  over 
the  wrinkles  of  old  age. 

Where  there  is  a  favorable  predisposition,  one  soon 
forms  a  kind  of  tacit  intimacy  by  often  meeting  on  the 


A  CONTENTED  MAN  193 

same  walks.  Once  or  twice  I  accommodated  him  with 
a  bench,  after  which  we  touched  hats  on  passing  each 
other;  at  length  we  got  so  far  as  to  take  a  pinch  of 
snuff  together  out  of  his  box,  which  is  equivalent  to 
eating  salt  together  in  the  East;  from  that  time  our 
acquaintance  was  established. 

I  now  became  his  frequent  companion  in  his  morn 
ing  promenades,  and  derived  much  amusement  from 
his  good-humored  remarks  on  men  and  manners.  One 
morning,  as  we  were  strolling  through  an  alley  of  the 
Tuileries,  with  the  autumnal  breeze  whirling  the  yel 
low  leaves  about  our  path,  my  companion  fell  into  a 
peculiarly  communicative  vein,  and  gave  me  several 
particulars  of  his  history.  He  had  once  been  wealthy, 
and  possessed  of  a  fine  estate  in  the  country  and  a  noble 
hotel  in  Paris;  but  the  revolution,  which  effected  so 
many  disastrous  changes,  stripped  him  of  everything. 
He  was  secretly  denounced  by  his  own  steward  during 
a  sanguinary  period  of  the  revolution,  and  a  number 
of  the  bloodhounds  of  the  Convention  were  sent  to 
arrest  him.  He  received  private  intelligence  of  their 
approach  in  time  to  effect  his  escape.  He  landed  in 
England  without  money  or  friends,  but  considered 
himself  singularly  fortunate  in  having  his  head  upon 
his  shoulders,  several  of  his  neighbors  having  been 
guillotined  as  a  punishment  for  being  rich. 

When  he  reached  London  he  had  but  a  louis  in  his 
pocket,  and  no  prospect  of  getting  another.  He  ate 
a  solitary  dinner  on  beefsteak,  and  was  almost  poisoned 
by  port  wine,  which  from  its  color  he  had  mistaken 
for  claret.  The  dingy  look  of  the  chop-house,  and  of 
the  little  mahogany-colored  box  in  which  he  ate  his 
dinner,  contrasted  sadly  with  the  gay  saloons  of  Paris. 
Everything  looked  gloomy  and  disheartening.  Pov 
erty  stared  him  in  the  face;  he  turned  over  the  few 
shillings  he  had  of  change ;  did  not  know  what  was  to 
become  of  him ;  and  —  went  to  the  theatre ! 

13 


194  A  CONTENTED  MAN 

He  took  his  seat  in  the  pit,  listened  attentively  to  a 
tragedy  of  which  he  did  not  understand  a  word,  and 
which  seemed  made  up  of  fighting,  and  stabbing,  and 
scene-shifting,  and  began  to  feel  his  spirits  sinking 
within  him ;  when,  casting  his  eyes  into  the  orchestra, 
what  was  his  surprise  to  recognize  an  old  friend  and 
neighbor  in  the  very  act  of  extorting  music  from  a 
huge  violoncello. 

As  soon  as  the  evening's  performance  was  over  he 
tapped  his  friend  on  the  shoulder;  they  kissed  each 
other  on  each  cheek,  and  the  musician  took  him  home, 
and  shared  his  lodgings  with  him.  He  had  learned 
music  as  an  accomplishment;  by  his  friend's  advice 
he  now  turned  to  it  as  a  means  of  support.  He  pro 
cured  a  violin,  offered  himself  for  the  orchestra,  was 
received,  and  again  considered  himself  one  of  the  most 
fortunate  men  upon  earth. 

Here,  therefore,  he  lived  for  many  years  during  the 
ascendency  of  the  terrible  Napoleon.  He  found 
several  emigrants  living  like  himself,  by  the  exercise 
of  their  talents.  They  associated  together,  talked  of 
France  and  of  old  times,  and  endeavored  to  keep  up  a 
semblance  of  Parisian  life  in  the  centre  of  London. 

They  dined  at  a  miserable  cheap  French  restaurateur 
in  the  neighborhood  of  Leicester  Square,  where  they 
were  served  with  a  caricature  of  French  cookery. 
They  took  their  promenade  in  St.  James's  Park,  and 
endeavored  to  fancy  it  the  Tuileries;  in  short,  they 
made  shift  to  accommodate  themselves  to  everything 
but  an  English  Sunday.  Indeed,  the  old  gentleman 
seemed  to  have  nothing  to  say  against  the  English, 
whom  he  affirmed  to  be  braves  gens;  and  he  mingled 
so  much  among  them,  that  at  the  end  of  twenty  years 
he  could  speak  their  language  almost  well  enough  to 
be  understood. 

The  downfall  of  Napoleon  was  another  epoch  in  his 
life.  He  had  considered  himself  a  fortunate  man  to 


A  CONTENTED  MAN  195 

make  his  escape  penniless  out  of  France,  and  he  con 
sidered  himself  fortunate  to  be  able  to  return  penniless 
into  it.  It  is  true  that  he  found  his  Parisian  hotel  had 
passed  through  several  hands  during  the  vicissitudes 
of  the  times,  so  as  to  be  beyond  the  reach  of  recovery ; 
but  then  he  had  been  noticed  benignantly  by  govern 
ment,  and  had  a  pension  of  several  hundred  francs, 
upon  which,  with  careful  management,  he  lived  inde 
pendently,  and,  as  far  as  I  could  judge,  happily. 

As  his  once  splendid  hotel  was  now  occupied  as  a 
hotel  garni,  he  hired  a  small  chamber  in  the  attic;  it 
was  but,  as  he  said,  changing  his  bedroom  up  two  pair 
of  stairs,  —  he  was  still  in  his  own  house.  His  room 
was  decorated  with  pictures  of  several  beauties  of 
former  times,  with  whom  he  professed  to  have  been 
on  favorable  terms ;  among  them  was  a  favorite  opera- 
dancer,  who  had  been  the  admiration  of  Paris  at  the 
breaking  out  of  the  revolution.  She  had  been  a  prote 
gee  of  my  friend,  and  one  of  the  few  of  his  youthful 
favorites  who  had  survived  the  lapse  of  time  and  its 
various  vicissitudes.  They  had  renewed  their  acquain 
tance,  and  she  now  and  then  visited  him;  but  the 
beautiful  Psyche,  once  the  fashion  of  the  day  and  the 
idol  of  the  parterre,  was  now  a  shrivelled,  little  old 
woman,  warped  in  the  back,  and  with  a  hooked  nose. 

The  old  gentleman  was  a  devout  attendant  upon 
levees;  he  was  most  zealous  in  his  loyalty,  and  could 
not  speak  of  the  royal  family  without  a  burst  of  en 
thusiasm,  for  he  still  felt  towards  them  as  his  com 
panions  in  exile.  As  to  his  poverty  he  made  light  of 
it,  and  indeed  had  a  good-humored  way  of  consoling 
himself  for  every  cross  and  privation.  If  he  had  lost 
his  chateau  in  the  country,  he  had  half  a  dozen  royal 
palaces,  as  it  were,  at  his  command.  He  had  Versailles 
and  St.  Cloud  for  his  country  resorts,  and  the  shady 
alleys  of  the  Tuileries  and  the  Luxembourg  for  his 
town  recreation.  Thus  all  his  promenades  and  relaxa- 


196  A  CONTENTED  MAN 

tions  were  magnificent,  yet  cost  nothing.  When  I 
walk  through  these  fine  gardens,  said  he,  I  have  only 
to  fancy  myself  the  owner  of  them,  and  they  are  mine. 
All  these  gay  crowds  are  my  visitors,  and  I  defy  the 
grand  seignior  himself  to  display  a  greater  variety  of 
beauty.  Nay,  what  is  better,  I  have  not  the  trouble  of 
entertaining  them.  My  estate  is  a  perfect  Sans  Souci, 
where  every  one  does  as  he  pleases,  and  no  one  troubles 
the  owner.  All  Paris  is  my  theatre,  and  presents  me 
with  a  continual  spectacle.  I  have  a  table  spread  for 
me  in  every  street,  and  thousands  of  waiters  ready  to 
fly  at  my  bidding.  When  my  servants  have  waited 
upon  me  I  pay  them,  discharge  them,  and  there  's  an 
end;  I  have  no  fears  of  their  wronging  or  pilfering 
me  when  my  back  is  turned.  Upon  the  whole,  said  the 
old  gentleman,  with  a  smile  of  infinite  good-humor, 
when  I  think  upon  the  various  risks  I  have  run,  and 
the  manner  in  which  I  have  escaped  them,  when  I 
recollect  all  that  I  have  suffered,  and  consider  all 
that  I  at  present  enjoy,  I  cannot  but  look  upon  myself 
as  a  man  of  singular  good  fortune. 

Such  was  the  brief  history  of  this  practical  philoso 
pher,  and  it  is  a  picture  of  many  a  Frenchman  ruined 
by  the  revolution.  The  French  appear  to  have  a 
greater  facility  than  most  men  in  accommodating  them 
selves  to  the  reverses  of  life,  and  of  extracting  honey 
out  of  the  bitter  things  of  this  world.  The  first  shock 
of  calamity  is  apt  to  overwhelm  them ;  but  when  it  is 
once  past,  their  natural  buoyancy  of  feeling  soon  brings 
them  to  the  surface.  This  may  be  called  the  result  of 
levity  of  character,  but  it  answers  the  end  of  rec 
onciling  us  to  misfortune,  and  if  it  be  not  true  phi 
losophy,  it  is  something  almost  as  efficacious.  Ever 
since  I  have  heard  the  story  of  my  little  Frenchman, 
I  have  treasured  it  up  in  my  heart;  and  I  thank  my 
stars  I  have  at  length  found,  what  I  had  long  con 
sidered  as  not  to  be  found  on  earth ;  —  a  contented 
man. 


A  CONTENTED  MAN  197 

P.  S.  —  There  is  no  calculating  on  human  happi 
ness.  Since  writing  the  foregoing,  the  law  of  indem 
nity  has  been  passed,  and  my  friend  restored  to  a  great 
part  of  his  fortune.  I  was  absent  from  Paris  at  the 
time,  but  on  my  return  hastened  to  congratulate  him. 
I  found  him  magnificently  lodged  on  the  first  floor  of 
his  hotel.  I  was  ushered,  by  a  servant  in  livery, 
through  splendid  saloons,  to  a  cabinet  richly  furnished, 
where  I  found  my  little  Frenchman  reclining  on  a 
couch.  He  received  me  with  his  usual  cordiality;  but 
I  saw  the  gayety  and  benevolence  of  his  countenance 
had  fled ;  he  had  an  eye  full  of  care  and  anxiety. 

I  congratulated  him  on  his  good  fortune.  "  Good 
fortune?"  echoed  he;  "bah!  I  have  been  plundered 
of  a  princely  fortune,  and  they  give  me  a  pittance  as 
an  indemnity." 

Alas!  I  found  my  late  poor  and  contented  friend 
one  of  the  richest  and  most  miserable  men  in  Paris. 
Instead  of  rejoicing  in  the  ample  competency  restored 
to  him,  he  is  daily  repining  at  the  superfluity  withheld. 
He  no  longer  wanders  in  happy  idleness  about  Paris, 
but  is  a  repining  attendant  in  the  antechambers  of 
ministers.  His  loyalty  has  evaporated  with  his  gayety ; 
he  screws  his  mouth  when  the  Bourbons  are  mentioned, 
and  even  shrugs  his  shoulders  when  he  hears  the 
praises  of  the  king.  In  a  word,  he  is  one  of  the  many 
philosophers  undone  by  the  law  of  indemnity ;  and  his 
case  is  desperate,  for  I  doubt  whether  even  another  re 
verse  of  fortune,  which  should  restore  him  to  poverty, 
could  make  him  again  a  happy  man. 


198    BROEK:  OR,  THE  DUTCH  PARADISE 
BROEK: 

OR,  THE  DUTCH   PARADISE 

IT  has  long  been  a  matter  of  discussion  and  controversy 
among  the  pious  and  the  learned,  as  to  the  situation  of 
the  terrestrial  paradise  whence  our  first  parents  were 
exiled.  This  question  has  been  put  to  rest  by  certain 
of  the  faithful  in  Holland,  who  have  decided  in  favor 
of  the  village  of  BROEK,  about  six  miles  from  Amster 
dam.  It  may  not,  they  observe,  correspond  in  all  re 
spects  to  the  description  of  the  garden  of  Eden,  handed 
down  from  days  of  yore,  but  it  comes  nearer  to  their 
ideas  of  a  perfect  paradise  than  any  other  place  on 
earth. 

This  eulogium  induced  me  to  make  some  inquiries 
as  to  this  favored  spot,  in  the  course  of  a  sojourn  at 
the  city  of  Amsterdam;  and  the  information  I  pro 
cured  fully  justified  the  enthusiastic  praises  I  had 
heard.  The  village  of  Broek  is  situated  in  Waterland, 
in  the  midst  of  the  greenest  and  richest  pastures  of 
Holland,  I  may  say,  of  Europe.  These  pastures  are 
the  source  of  its  wealth;  for  it  is  famous  for  its  dai 
ries,  and  for  those  oval  cheeses  which  regale  and  per 
fume  the  whole  civilized  world.  The  population  con 
sists  of  about  six  hundred  persons,  comprising  several 
families  which  have  inhabited  the  place  since  time  im 
memorial,  and  have  waxed  rich  on  the  products  of 
their  meadows.  They  keep  all  their  wealth  among 
themselves,  intermarrying,  and  keeping  all  strangers  at 
a  wary  distance.  They  are  a  "  hard  money  "  people, 
and  remarkable  for  turning  the  penny  the  right  way. 
It  is  said  to  have  been  an  old  rule,  established  by  one 
of  the  primitive  financiers  and  legislators  of  Broek, 


BROEK:  OR,  THE  DUTCH  PARADISE     199 

that  no  one  should  leave  the  village  with  more  than  six 
guilders  in  his  pocket,  or  return  with  less  than  ten; 
a  shrewd  regulation,  well  worthy  the  attention  of 
modern  political  economists,  who  are  so  anxious  to 
fix  the  balance  of  trade. 

What,  however,  renders  Broek  so  perfect  an  elysium 
in  the  eyes  of  all  true  Hollanders  is  the  matchless 
height  to  which  the  spirit  of  cleanliness  is  carried 
there.  It  amounts  almost  to  a  religion  among  the  in 
habitants,  who  pass  the  greater  part  of  their  time  rub 
bing  and  scrubbing,  and  painting  and  varnishing ;  each 
housewife  vies  with  her  neighbor  in  her  devotion  to 
the  scrubbing-brush,  as  zealous  Catholics  do  in  their 
devotion  to  the  cross ;  and  it  is  said,  a  notable  house 
wife  of  the  place  in  days  of  yore  is  held  in  pious 
remembrance,  and  almost  canonized  as  a  saint,  for 
having  died  of  pure  exhaustion  and  chagrin,  in  an 
ineffectual  attempt  to  scour  a  black  man  white. 

These  particulars  awakened  my  ardent  curiosity  to 
see  a  place  which  I  pictured  to  myself  the  very  foun 
tain-head  of  certain  hereditary  habits  and  customs 
prevalent  among  the  descendants  of  the  original  Dutch 
settlers  of  my  native  State.  I  accordingly  lost  no  time 
in  performing  a  pilgrimage  to  Broek. 

Before  I  reached  the  place,  I  beheld  symptoms  of 
the  tranquil  character  of  its  inhabitants.  A  little 
clump-built  boat  was  in  full  sail  along  the  lazy  bosom 
of  a  canal,  but  its  sail  consisted  of  the  blades  of  two 
paddles  stood  on  end,  while  the  navigator  sat  steering 
with  a  third  paddle  in  the  stern,  crouched  down  like  a 
toad,  with  a  slouched  hat  drawn  over  his  eyes.  I  pre 
sumed  him  to  be  some  nautical  lover,  on  the  way  to  his 
mistress.  After  proceeding  a  little  farther,  I  came  in 
sight  of  the  harbor  or  port  of  destination  of  this 
drowsy  navigator.  This  was  the  Broeken-Meer,  an  ar 
tificial  basin,  or  sheet  of  olive-green  water,  tranquil  as 
a  mill-pond.  On  this  the  village  of  Broek  is  situated, 


200    BROEK:  OR,  THE  DUTCH   PARADISE 

and  the  borders  are  laboriously  decorated  with  flower 
beds,  box-trees  clipped  into  all  kinds  of  ingenious 
shapes  and  fancies,  and  little  "  lust "  houses  or 
pavilions. 

I  alighted  outside  of  the  village,  for  no  horse  nor 
vehicle  is  permitted  to  enter  its  precincts,  lest  it  should 
cause  defilement  of  the  well-scoured  pavements.  Shak 
ing  the  dust  off  my  feet,  therefore,  I  prepared  to  enter, 
with  due  reverence  and  circumspection,  this  sanctum 
sanctorum  of  Dutch  cleanliness.  I  entered  by  a  nar 
row  street,  paved  with  yellow  bricks,  laid  edgewise, 
and  so  clean  that  one  might  eat  from  them.  Indeed, 
they  were  actually  worn  deep,  not  by  the  tread  of  feet, 
but  by  the  friction  of  the  scrubbing-brush. 

The  houses  were  built  of  wood,  and  all  appeared 
to  have  been  freshly  painted,  of  green,  yellow,  and 
other  bright  colors.  They  were  separated  from  each 
other  by  gardens  and  orchards,  and  stood  at  some  lit 
tle  distance  from  the  street,  with  wide  areas  or  court 
yards,  paved  in  mosaic,  with  variegated  stones,  polished 
by  frequent  rubbing.  The  areas  were  divided  from  the 
street  by  curiously  wrought  railings,  or  balustrades, 
of  iron,  surmounted  with  brass  and  copper  balls, 
scoured  into  dazzling  effulgence.  The  very  trunks 
of  the  trees  in  front  of  the  houses  were  by  the  same 
process  made  to  look  as  if  they  had  been  varnished. 
The  porches,  doors,  and  window-frames  of  the  houses 
were  of  exotic  woods,  curiously  carved,  and  polished 
like  costly  furniture.  The  front-doors  are  never 
opened,  excepting  on  christenings,  marriages,  or 
funerals;  on  all  ordinary  occasions,  visitors  enter  by 
the  back-door.  In  former  times,  persons  when  ad 
mitted  had  to  put  on  slippers,  but  this  oriental  cere 
mony  is  no  longer  insisted  upon. 

A  poor-devil  Frenchman,  who  attended  upon  me  as 
cicerone,  boasted  with  some  degree  of  exultation  of  a 
triumph  of  his.  countrymen  over  the  stern  regulations 


BROEK:  OR,  THE  DUTCH  PARADISE    201 

of  the  place.  During  the  time  that  Holland  was  over 
run  by  the  armies  of  the  French  republic,  a  French 
general,  surrounded  by  his  whole  etat  major,  who  had 
come  from  Amsterdam  to  view  the  wonders  of  Broek, 
applied  for  admission  at  one  of  these  tabooed  portals. 
The  reply  was,  that  the  owner  never  received  any  one 
who  did  not  come  introduced  by  some  friend.  "  Very 
well,"  said  the  general,  "  take  my  compliments  to  your 
master,  and  tell  him  I  will  return  here  to-morrow  with 
a  company  of  soldiers,  pour  parler  raison  avec  mon 
ami  Hollanders."  Terrified  at  the  idea  of  having  a 
company  of  soldiers  billeted  upon  him,  the  owner  threw 
open  his  house,  entertained  the  general  and  his  retinue 
with  unwonted  hospitality,  though  it  is  said  it  cost  the 
family  a  month's  scrubbing  and  scouring  to  restore 
all  things  to  exact  order  after  this  military  invasion. 
My  vagabond  informant  seemed  to  consider  this  one 
of  the  greatest  victories  of  the  republic. 

I  walked  about  the  place  in  mute  wonder  and  ad 
miration.  A  dead  stillness  prevailed  around,  like  that 
in  the  deserted  streets  of  Pompeii.  No  sign  of  life 
was  to  be  seen,  excepting  now  and  then  a  hand,  and  a 
long  pipe,  and  an  occasional  puff  of  smoke,  out  of  the 
window  of  some  "  lust-haus  "  overhanging  a  miniature 
canal;  and  on  approaching  a  little  nearer,  the  periph 
ery  in  profile  of  some  robustious  burgher. 

Among  the  grand  houses  pointed  out  to  me  were 
those  of  Claes  Bakker  and  Cornelius  Bakker,  richly 
carved  and  gilded,  with  flower-gardens  and  clipped 
shrubberies;  and  that  of  the  Great  Ditmus,  who,  my 
poor-devil  cicerone  informed  me  in  a  whisper,  was 
worth  two  millions;  all  these  were  mansions  shut  up 
from  the  world,  and  only  kept  to  be  cleaned.  After 
having  been  conducted  from  one  wonder  to  another  of 
the  village,  I  was  ushered  by  my  guide  into  the  grounds 
and  gardens  of  Mynheer  Broekker,  another  mighty 
cheese-manufacturer,  worth  eighty  thousand  guilders 


202    BROEK:  OR,  THE  DUTCH  PARADISE 

a  year.  I  had  repeatedly  been  struck  with  the  simi 
larity  of  all  that  I  had  seen  in  this  amphibious  little 
village  to  the  buildings  and  landscapes  on  Chinese  plat 
ters  and  teapots ;  but  here  I  found  the  similarity  com 
plete,  for  I  was  told  that  these  gardens  were  modelled 
upon  Van  Bramm's  description  of  those  of  Yuen  min 
Yuen,  in  China.  Here  were  serpentine  walks,  with 
trellised  borders;  winding  canals,  with  fanciful 
Chinese  bridges ;  flower-beds  resembling  huge  baskets, 
with  the  flower  of  "  love  lies  bleeding  "  falling  over 
to  the  ground.  But  mostly  had  the  fancy  of  Mynheer 
Broekker  been  displayed  about  a  stagnant  little  lake, 
on  which  a  corpulent-like  pinnace  lay  at  anchor.  On 
the  border  was  a  cottage,  within  which  were  a  wooden 
man  and  woman  seated  at  table,  and  a  wooden  dog 
beneath,  all  the  size  of  life;  on  pressing  a  spring,  the 
woman  commenced  spinning  and  the  dog  barked  furi 
ously.  On  the  lake  were  wooden  swans,  painted  to  the 
life;  some  floating,  others  on  the  nest  among  the 
rushes;  while  a  wooden  sportsman,  crouched  among 
the  bushes,  was  preparing  his  gun  to  take  deadly  aim. 
In  another  part  of  the  garden  was  a  dominie  in  his 
clerical  robes,  with  wig,  pipe,  and  cocked  hat;  and 
mandarins  with  nodding  heads,  amid  red  lions,  green 
tigers,  and  blue  hares.  Last  of  all,  the  heathen  deities, 
in  wood  and  plaster,  male  and  female,  naked  and  bare 
faced  as  usual,  and  seeming  to  stare  with  wonder  at 
finding  themselves  in  such  strange  company. 

My  shabby  French  guide,  while  he  pointed  out  all 
these  mechanical  marvels  of  the  garden,  was  anxious 
to  let  me  see  that  he  had  too  polite  a  taste  to  be  pleased 
by  them.  At  every  new  nick-nack  he  would  screw 
down  his  mouth,  shrug  up  his  shoulders,  take  a  pinch 
of  snuff,  and  exclaim  :  "  Ma  foi,  Monsieur  ces  Hol 
land  ais  sont  forts  pour  ces  betises-la!  " 

To  attempt  to  gain  admission  to  any  of  these  stately 
abodes  was  out  of  the  question,  having  no  company  of 


MILKING    TIME  — BROEK 


BROEK:  OR,  THE  DUTCH  PARADISE    203 

soldiers  to  enforce  a  solicitation.  I  was  fortunate 
enough,  however,  through  the  aid  of  my  guide,  to 
make  my  way  into  the  kitchen  of  the  illustrious  Dit- 
mus,  and  I  question  whether  the  parlor  would  have 
proved  more  worthy  of  observation.  The  cook,  a 
little  wiry,  hook-nosed  woman,  worn  thin  by  incessant 
action  and  friction,  was  bustling  about  among  her 
kettles  and  saucepans,  with  the  scullion  at  her  heels, 
both  clattering  in  wooden  shoes,  which  were  as  clean 
and  white  as  the  milk-pails;  rows  of  vessels,  of  brass 
and  copper,  regiments  of  pewter  dishes  and  portly  por 
ringers,  gave  resplendent  evidence  of  the  intensity  of 
their  cleanliness;  the  very  trammels  and  hangers  in 
the  fireplace  were  highly  scoured,  and  the  burnished 
face  of  the  good  Saint  Nicholas  shone  forth  from  the 
iron  plate  of  the  chimney-back. 

Among  the  decorations  of  the  kitchen  was  a  printed 
sheet  of  wood-cuts,  representing  the  various  holiday 
customs  of  Holland,  with  explanatory  rhymes.  Here 
I  was  delighted  to  recognize  the  jollities  of  New- 
Year's  day,  the  festivities  of  Paas  and  Pinkster,  and 
all  the  other  merrymakings  handed  down  in  my  native 
place  from  the  earliest  times  of  New  Amsterdam,  and 
which  had  been  such  bright  spots  in  the  year  in  my 
childhood.  I  eagerly  made  myself  master  of  this 
precious  document  for  a  trifling  consideration,  and 
bore  it  off  as  a  memento  of  the  place;  though  I  ques 
tion  if,  in  so  doing,  I  did  not  carry  off  with  me  the 
whole  current  literature  of  Broek. 

I  must  not  omit  to  mention  that  this  village  is  the 
paradise  of  cows  as  well  as  men;  indeed,  you  would 
almost  suppose  the  cow  to  be  as  much  an  object  of  wor 
ship  here,  as  the  bull  was  among  the  ancient  Egyptians ; 
and  well  does  she  merit  it,  for  she  is  in  fact  the  pa 
troness  of  the  place.  The  same  scrupulous  cleanliness, 
however,  which  pervades  everything  else,  is  manifested 
in  the  treatment  of  this  venerated  animal.  She  is  not 


204    BROEK:  OR,  THE  DUTCH   PARADISE 

permitted  to  perambulate  the  place;  but  in  winter, 
when  she  forsakes  the  rich  pasture,  a  well-built  house 
is  provided  for  her,  well  painted,  and  maintained  in 
the  most  perfect  order.  Her  stall  is  of  ample  dimen 
sions;  the  floor  is  scrubbed  and  polished;  her  hide  is 
daily  curried  and  brushed  and  sponged  to  her  heart's 
content,  and  her  tail  is  daintily  tucked  up  to  the  ceil 
ing,  and  decorated  with  a  ribbon ! 

On  my  way  back  through  the  village,  I  passed  the 
house  of  the  prediger,  or  preacher;  a  very  comfortable 
mansion,  which  led  me  to  augur  well  of  the  state  of 
religion  in  the  village.  On  inquiry,  I  was  told  that  for 
a  long  time  the  inhabitants  lived  in  a  great  state  of  in 
difference  as  to  religious  matters;  it  was  in  vain  that 
their  preachers  endeavored  to  arouse  their  thoughts 
as  to  a  future  state ;  the  joys  of  heaven,  as  commonly 
depicted,  were  but  little  to  their  taste.  At  length  a  dom 
inie  appeared  among  them  who  struck  out  in  a  different 
vein.  He  depicted  the  New  Jerusalem  as  a  place  all 
smooth  and  level,  with  beautiful  dykes  and  ditches  and 
canals,  and  houses  all  shining  with  paint  and  varnish 
and  glazed  tiles,  and  where  there  should  never  come 
horse,  nor  ass,  nor  cat,  nor  dog,  nor  anything  that 
could  make  noise  or  dirt;  but  there  should  be  nothing 
but  rubbing  and  scrubbing,  and  washing  and  painting, 
and  gilding  and  varnishing,  for  ever  and  ever,  amen! 
Since  that  time  the  good  housewives  of  Broek  have  all 
turned  their  faces  Zionward. 


GUESTS  FROM  GIBBET  ISLAND       205 


GUESTS  FROM  GIBBET  ISLAND 

A   LEGEND   OF   COMMUNIPAW 

FOUND  AMONG  THE   KNICKERBOCKER   PAPERS   AT 
WOLFERT'S  ROOST 

WHOEVER  has  visited  the  ancient  and  renowned  vil 
lage  of  Communipaw  may  have  noticed  an  old  stone 
building,  of  most  ruinous  and  sinister  appearance.  The 
doors  and  window-shutters  are  ready  to  drop  from 
their  hinges;  old  clothes  are  stuffed  in  the  broken 
panes  of  glass,  while  legions  of  half-starved  dogs  prowl 
about  the  premises,  and  rush  out  and  bark  at  every 
passer-by,  for  your  beggarly  house  in  a  village  is  most 
apt  to  swarm  with  profligate  and  ill-conditioned  dogs. 
What  adds  to  the  sinister  appearance  of  this  mansion 
is  a  tall  frame  in  front,  not  a  little  resembling  a  gal 
lows,  and  which  looks  as  if  waiting  to  accommodate 
some  of  the  inhabitants  with  a  well-merited  airing. 
It  is  not  a  gallows,  however,  but  an  ancient  sign-post; 
for  this  dwelling  in  the  golden  days  of  Communipaw 
was  one  of  the  most  orderly  and  peaceful  of  village 
taverns,  where  public  affairs  were  talked  and  smoked 
over.  In  fact,  it  was  in  this  very  building  that  Oloffe 
the  Dreamer  and  his  companions  concerted  that  great 
voyage  of  discovery  and  colonization  in  which  they 
explored  Buttermilk  Channel,  were  nearly  ship 
wrecked  in  the  strait  of  Hell  Gate,  and  finally  landed 
on  the  island  of  Manhattan,  and  founded  the  great  city 
of  New  Amsterdam. 

Even  after  the  province  had  been  cruelly  wrested 
from  the  sway  of  their  High  Mightinesses  by  the  com 
bined  forces  of 'the  British  and  the  Yankees,  this  tavern 


2o6      GUESTS  FROM  GIBBET  ISLAND 

continued  its  ancient  loyalty.  It  is  true,  the  head  of 
the  Prince  of  Orange  disappeared  from  the  sign,  a 
strange  bird  being  painted  over  it,  with  the  explanatory 
legend  of  "  DIE  WILDE  CANS/'  or,  The  Wild  Goose ; 
but  this  all  the  world  knew  to  be  a  sly  riddle  of  the 
landlord,  the  worthy  Teunis  Van  Gieson,  a  knowing 
man,  in  a  small  way,  who  laid  his  finger  beside  his 
nose  and  winked,  when  any  one  studied  the  significa 
tion  of  his  sign,  and  observed  that  his  goose  was  hatch 
ing,  but  would  join  the  flock  whenever  they  flew  over 
the  water;  an  enigma  which  was  the  perpetual  recrea 
tion  and  delight  of  the  loyal  but  fat-headed  burghers 
of  Communipaw. 

Under  the  sway  of  this  patriotic,  though  discreet 
and  quiet  publican,  the  tavern  continued  to  flourish  in 
primeval  tranquillity,  and  was  the  resort  of  true- 
hearted  Nederlanders,  from  all  parts  of  Pavonia;  who 
met  here  quietly  and  secretly,  to  smoke  and  drink  the 
downfall  of  Briton  and  Yankee,  and  success  to  Admiral 
Van  Tromp. 

The  only  drawback  on  the  comfort  of  the  establish 
ment  was  a  nephew  of  mine  host,  a  sister's  son,  Yan 
Yost  Vanderscamp  by  name,  and  a  real  scamp  by 
nature.  This  unlucky  whipster  showed  an  early  pro 
pensity  to  mischief,  which  he  gratified  in  a  small  way 
by  playing  tricks  upon  the  frequenters  of  the  Wild 
Goose,  —  putting  gunpowder  in  their  pipes,  or  squibs 
in  their  pockets,  and  astonishing  them  with  an  ex 
plosion,  while  they  sat  nodding  around  the  fireplace 
in  the  bar-room;  and  if  perchance  a  worthy  burgher 
from  some  distant  part  of  Pavonia  lingered  until  dark 
over  his  potation,  it  was  odds  but  young  Vanderscamp 
would  slip  a  brier  under  his  horse's  tail,  as  he  mounted, 
and  send  him  clattering  along  the  road,  in  neck-or- 
nothing  style,  to  the  infinite  astonishment  and  dis 
comfiture  of  the  rider. 

It  may  be  wondered  at,  that  mine  host  of  the  Wild 


GUESTS  FROM  GIBBET  ISLAND       207 

Goose  did  not  turn  such  a  graceless  varlet  out  of  doors ; 
but  Teunis  Van  Gieson  was  an  easy-tempered  man, 
and,  having  no  child  of  his  own,  looked  upon  his 
nephew  with  almost  parental  indulgence.  His  patience 
and  good-nature  were  doomed  to  be  tried  by  another 
inmate  of  his  mansion.  This  was  a  cross-grained  cur 
mudgeon  of  a  negro,  named  Pluto,  who  was  a  kind  of 
enigma  in  Communipaw.  Where  he  came  from,  no 
body  knew.  He  was  found  one  morning,  after  a  storm, 
cast  like  a  sea-monster  on  the  strand,  in  front  of  the 
Wild  Goose,  and  lay  there,  more  dead  than  alive.  The 
neighbors  gathered  round,  and  speculated  on  this  pro 
duction  of  the  deep;  whether  it  were  fish  or  flesh,  or 
a  compound  of  both,  commonly  yclept  a  merman.  The 
kind-hearted  Teunis  Van  Gieson,  seeing  that  he  wore 
the  human  form,  took  him  into  his  house,  and  warmed 
him  into  life.  By  degrees,  he  showed  signs  of  intelli 
gence,  and  even  uttered  sounds  very  much  like  lan 
guage,  but  which  no  one  in  Communipaw  could  under 
stand.  Some  thought  him  a  negro  just  from  Guinea, 
who  had  either  fallen  overboard,  or  escaped  from  a 
slave-ship.  Nothing,  however,  could  ever  draw  from 
him  any  account  of  his  origin.  When  questioned  on 
the  subject,  he  merely  pointed  to  Gibbet  Island,  a  small 
rocky  islet  which  lies  in  the  open  bay,  just  opposite 
Communipaw,  as  if  that  were  his  native  place,  though 
everybody  knew  it  had  never  been  inhabited. 

In  the  process  of  time,  he  acquired  something  of 
the  Dutch  language;  that  is  to  say,  he  learnt  all  its 
vocabulary  of  oaths  and  maledictions,  with  just  words 
sufficient  to  string  them  together.  "  Donder  en  blick- 
sem!"  (thunder  and  lightning)  was  the  gentlest  of 
his  ejaculations.  For  years  he  kept  about  the  Wild 
Goose,  more  like  one  of  those  familiar  spirits,  or 
household  goblins,  we  read  of,  than  like  a  human  being. 
He  acknowledged  allegiance  to  no  one,  but  performed 
various  domestic  offices,  when  it  suited  his  humor; 


208      GUESTS  FROM  GIBBET  ISLAND 

waiting  occasionally  on  the  guests,  grooming  the 
horses,  cutting  wood,  drawing  water;  and  all  this 
without  being  ordered.  Lay  any  command  on  him, 
and  the  stubborn  sea-urchin  was  sure  to  rebel.  He 
was  never  so  much  at  home,  however,  as  when  on  the 
water,  plying  about  in  skiff  or  canoe,  entirely  alone, 
fishing,  crabbing,  or  grabbing  for  oysters,  and  would 
bring  home  quantities  for  the  larder  of  the  Wild  Goose, 
which  he  would  throw  down  at  the  kitchen-door,  with 
a  growl.  No  wind  nor  weather  deterred  him  from 
launching  forth  on  his  favorite  element :  indeed,  the 
wilder  the  weather,  the  more  he  seemed  to  enjoy  it. 
If  a  storm  was  brewing,  he  was  sure  to  put  off  from 
shore;  and  would  be  seen  far  out  in  the  bay,  his  light 
skiff  dancing  like  a  feather  on  the  waves,  when  sea  and 
sky  were  in  a  turmoil,  and  the  stoutest  ships  were  fain 
to  lower  their  sails.  Sometimes  on  such  occasions  he 
would  be  absent  for  days  together.  How  he  weathered 
the  tempest,  and  how  and  where  he  subsisted,  no  one 
could  divine,  nor  did  any  one  venture  to  ask,  for  all 
had  an  almost  superstitious  awe  of  him.  Some  of  the 
Communipaw  oystermen  declared  they  had  more  than 
once  seen  him  suddenly  disappear,  canoe  and  all,  as  if 
plunged  beneath  the  waves,  and  after  a  while  come 
up  again,  in  quite  a  different  part  of  the  bay ;  whence 
they  concluded  that  he  could  live  under  water  like  that 
notable  species  of  wild  duck  commonly  called  the  hell- 
diver.  All  began  to  consider  him  in  the  light  of  a  foul- 
weather  bird,  like  the  Mother  Carey's,  chicken,  or 
stormy  petrel;  and  whenever  they  saw  him  putting 
far  out  in  his  skiff,  in  cloudy  weather,  made  up  their 
minds  for  a  storm. 

The  only  being  for  whom  he  seemed  to  have  any 
liking  was  Yan  Yost  Vanderscamp,  and  him  he  liked 
for  his  very  wickedness.  He  in  a  manner  took  the  boy 
under  his  tutelage,  prompted  him  to  all  kinds  of  mis 
chief,  aided  him  in  every  wild  harum-scarum  freak, 


GUESTS  FROM  GIBBET  ISLAND       209 

until  the  lad  became  the  complete  scapegrace  of  the 
village,  a  pest  to  his  uncle  and  to  every  one  else.  Nor 
were  his  pranks  confined  to  the  land;  he  soon  learned 
to  accompany  old  Pluto  on  the  water.  Together  these 
worthies  would  cruise  about  the  broad  bay,  and  all  the 
neighboring  straits  and  rivers ;  poking  around  in  skiffs 
and  canoes;  robbing  the  set  nets  of  the  fishermen; 
landing  on  remote  coasts,  and  laying  waste  orchards 
and  water-melon  patches ;  in  short,  carrying  on  a  com 
plete  system  of  piracy,  on  a  small  scale.  Piloted  by 
Pluto,  the  youthful  Vanderscamp  soon  became  ac 
quainted  with  all  the  bays,  rivers,  creeks,  and  inlets  of 
the  watery  world  around  him;  could  navigate  from 
the  Hook  to  Spiting  Devil  on  the  darkest  night,  and 
learned  to  set  even  the  terrors  of  Hell  Gate  at  defiance. 

At  length  negro  and  boy  suddenly  disappeared,  and 
days  and  weeks  elapsed,  but  without  tidings  of  them. 
Some  said  they  must  have  run  away  and  gone  to  sea; 
others  jocosely  hinted  that  old  Pluto,  being  no  other 
than  his  namesake  in  disguise,  had  spirited  away  the 
boy  to  the  nether  regions.  All,  however,  agreed  in 
one  thing,  that  the  village  was  well  rid  of  them. 

In  the  process  of  time,  the  good  Teunis  Van  Gieson 
slept  with  his  fathers,  and  the  tavern  remained  shut 
up,  waiting  for  a  claimant,  for  the  next  heir  was  Yan 
Yost  Vanderscamp,  and  he  had  not  been  heard  of  for 
years.  At  length,  one  day,  a  boat  was  seen  pulling  for 
shore,  from  a  long,  black,  rakish-looking  schooner, 
that  lay  at  anchor  in  the  bay.  The  boat's  crew  seemed 
worthy  of  the  craft  from  which  they  debarked.  Never 
had  such  a  set  of  noisy,  roistering,  swaggering  varlets 
landed  in  peaceful  Communipaw.  They  were  out 
landish  in  garb  and  demeanor,  and  were  headed  by  a 
rough,  burly,  bully  ruffian,  with  fiery  whiskers,  a  cop 
per  nose,  a  scar  across  his  face,  and  a  great  Flaunder- 
ish  beaver  slouched  on  one  side  of  his  head,  in  whom, 
to  their  dismay,  the  quiet  inhabitants  were  made  to 

J4 


210      GUESTS  FROM  GIBBET  ISLAND 

recognize  their  early  pest,  Yan  Yost  Vanderscamp. 
The  rear  of  this  hopeful  gang  was  brought  up  by  old 
Pluto,  who  had  lost  an  eye,  grown  grizzly-headed,  and 
looked  more  like  a  devil  than  ever.  Vanderscamp  re 
newed  his  acquaintance  with  the  old  burghers,  much 
against  their  will,  and  in  a  manner  not  at  all  to  their 
taste.  He  slapped  them  familiarly  on  the  back,  gave 
them  an  iron  grip  of  the  hand,  and  was  hail-fellow- 
well-met.  According  to  his  own  account,  he  had  been 
all  the  world  over,  had  made  money  by  bags  full,  had 
ships  in  every  sea,  and  now  meant  to  turn  the  Wild 
Goose  into  a  country-seat,  where  he  and  his  comrades, 
all  rich  merchants  from  foreign  parts,  might  enjoy 
themselves  in  the  interval  of  their  voyages. 

Sure  enough,  in  a  little  while  there  was  a  complete 
metamorphose  of  the  Wild  Goose.  From  being  a 
quiet,  peaceful  Dutch  public  house,  it  became  a  most 
riotous,  uproarious  private  dwelling;  a  complete  ren 
dezvous  for  boisterous  men  of  the  seas,  who  came 
here  to  have  what  they  called  a  "  blow-out  "  on  dry 
land,  and  might  be  seen  at  all  hours,  lounging  about 
the  door,  or  lolling  out  of  the  windows,  swearing 
among  themselves,  and  cracking  rough  jokes  on  every 
passer-by.  The  house  was  fitted  up,  too,  in  so  strange 
a  manner:  hammocks  slung  to  the  walls,  instead  of 
bedsteads ;  odd  kinds  of  furniture,  of  foreign  fashion ; 
bamboo  couches,  Spanish  chairs ;  pistols,  cutlasses,  and 
blunderbusses,  suspended  on  every  peg;  silver  cruci 
fixes  on  the  mantel-pieces,  silver  candlesticks  and  por 
ringers  on  the  tables,  contrasting  oddly  with  the  pewter 
and  Delft  ware  of  the  original  establishment.  And 
then  the  strange  amusements  of  these  sea-monsters ! 
Pitching  Spanish  dollars,  instead  of  quoits;  firing 
blunderbusses  out  of  the  window ;  shooting  at  a  mark, 
or  at  any  unhappy  dog,  or  cat,  or  pig,  or  barn-door 
fowl,  that  might  happen  to  come  within  reach. 

The  only  being  who  seemed  to  relish  their  rough 


GUESTS  FROM  GIBBET  ISLAND       211 

waggery  was  old  Pluto;  and  yet  he  led  but  a  dog's  life 
of  it,  for  they  practised  all  kinds  of  manual  jokes  upon 
him,  kicked  him  about  like  a  foot-ball,  shook  him  by 
his  grizzly  mop  of  wool,  and  never  spoke  to  him  with 
out  coupling  a  curse,  by  way  of  adjective,  to  his  name, 
and  consigning  him  to  the  infernal  regions.  The  old 
fellow,  however,  seemed  to  like  them  the  better  the 
more  they  cursed  him,  though  his  utmost  expression 
of  pleasure  never  amounted  to  more  than  the  growl 
of  a  petted  bear,  when  his  ears  are  rubbed. 

Old  Pluto  was  the  ministering  spirit  at  the  orgies  of 
the  Wild  Goose;  and  such  orgies  as  took  place  there! 
Such  drinking,  singing,  whooping,  swearing;  with  an 
occasional  interlude  of  quarrelling  and  fighting.  The 
noisier  grew  the  revel,  the  more  old  Pluto  plied  the 
potations,  until  the  guests  would  become  frantic  in 
their  merriment,  smashing  everything  to  pieces,  and 
throwing  the  house  out  of  the  windows.  Sometimes, 
after  a  drinking  bout,  they  sallied  forth  and  scoured  the 
village,  to  the  dismay  of  the  worthy  burghers,  who 
gathered  their  women  within  doors,  and  would  have 
shut  up  the  house.  Vanderscamp,  however,  was  not 
to  be  rebuffed.  He  insisted  on  renewing  acquaintance 
with  his  old  neighbors,  and  on  introducing  his  friends, 
the  merchants,  to  their  families ;  swore  he  was  on  the 
lookout  for  a  wife,  and  meant,  before  he  stopped,  to 
find  husbands  for  all  their  daughters.  So,  will-ye, 
nill-ye,  sociable  he  was;  swaggered  about  their  best 
parlors,  with  his  hat  on  one  side  of  his  head;  sat  on 
the  good-wife's  nicely  waxed  mahogany  table,  kick 
ing  his  heels  against  the  carved  and  polished  legs; 
kissed  and  tousled  the  young  vrouws;  and,  if  they 
frowned  and  pouted,  gave  them  a  gold  rosary,  or  a 
sparkling  cross,  to  put  them  in  good-humor  again. 

Sometimes  nothing  would  satisfy  him,  but  he  must 
have  some  of  his  old  neighbors  to  dinner  at  the  Wild 
Goose.  There  was  no  refusing  him,  for  he  had  the 


212      GUESTS  FROM  GIBBET  ISLAND 

complete  upper  hand  of  the  community,  and  the  peace 
ful  burghers  all  stood  in  awe  of  him.  But  what  a 
time  would  the  quiet,  worthy  men  have,  among  these 
rake-hells,  who  would  delight  to  astound  them  with  the 
most  extravagant  gunpowder  tales,  embroidered  with 
all  kinds  of  foreign  oaths,  clink  the  can  with  them, 
pledge  them  in  deep  potations,  bawl  drinking-songs  in 
their  ears,  and  occasionally  fire  pistols  over  their  heads, 
or  under  the  table,  and  then  laugh  in  their  faces,  and 
ask  them  how  they  liked  the  smell  of  gunpowder. 

Thus  was  the  little  village  of  Communipaw  for  a 
time  like  the  unfortunate  wight  possessed  with  devils ; 
until  Vanderscamp  and  his  brother-merchants  would 
sail  on  another  trading  voyage,  when  the  Wild  Goose 
would  be  shut  up,  and  everything  relapse  into  quiet, 
only  to  be  disturbed  by  his  next  visitation. 

The  mystery  of  all  these  proceedings  gradually 
dawned  upon  the  tardy  intellects  of  Communipaw. 
These  were  the  times  of  the  notorious  Captain  Kidd, 
when  the  American  harbors  were  the  resorts  of  pi 
ratical  adventurers  of  all  kinds,  who,  under  pretext  of 
mercantile  voyages,  scoured  the  West  Indies,  made 
plundering  descents  upon  the  Spanish  Main,  visited 
even  the  remote  Indian  Seas,  and  then  came  to  dispose 
of  their  booty,  have  their  revels,  and  fit  out  new  ex 
peditions  in  the  English  colonies. 

Vanderscamp  had  served  in  this  hopeful  school,  and, 
having  risen  to  importance  among  the  buccaneers,  had 
pitched  upon  his  native  village  and  early  home,  as  a 
quiet,  out-of-the-way,  unsuspected  place,  where  he  and 
his  comrades,  while  anchored  at  New  York,  might 
have  their  feasts,  and  concert  their  plans,  without 
molestation. 

At  length  the  attention  of  the  British  government 
was  called  to  these  piratical  enterprises,  that  were 
becoming  so  frequent  and  outrageous.  Vigorous 
measures  were  taken  to  check  and  punish  them. 


GUESTS  FROM  GIBBET  ISLAND       213 

Several  of  the  most  noted  freebooters  were  caught  and 
executed,  and  three  of  Vanderscamp's  chosen  com 
rades,  the  most  riotous  swashbucklers  of  the  Wild 
Goose,  were  hanged  in  chains  on  Gibbet  Island,  in  full 
sight  of  their  favorite  resort.  As  to  Vanderscamp 
himself,  he  and  his  man  Pluto  again  disappeared,  and 
it  was  hoped  by  the  people  of  Communipaw  that  he  had 
fallen  in  some  foreign  brawl,  or  been  swung  on  some 
foreign  gallows. 

For  a  time,  therefore,  the  tranquillity  of  the  village 
was  restored;  the  worthy  Dutchmen  once  more 
smoked  their  pipes  in  peace,  eying  with  peculiar  com 
placency  their  old  pests  and  terrors,  the  pirates,  dan 
gling  and  drying  in  the  sun,  on  Gibbet  Island. 

This  perfect  calm  was  doomed  at  length  to  be  ruffled. 
The  fiery  persecution  of  the  pirates  gradually  subsided. 
Justice  was  satisfied  with  the  examples  that  had  been 
made,  and  there  was  no  more  talk  of  Kidd,  and  the 
other  heroes  of  like  kidney.  On  a  calm  summer  even 
ing,  a  boat,  somewhat  heavily  laden,  was  seen  pulling 
into  Communipaw.  What  was  the  surprise  and  dis 
quiet  of  the  inhabitants  to  see  Yan  Yost  Vanderscamp 
seated  at  the  helm,  and  his  man  Pluto  tugging  at  the 
oar!  Vanderscamp,  however,  was  apparently  an  al 
tered  man.  He  brought  home  with  him  a  wife,  who 
seemed  to  be  a  shrew,  and  to  have  the  upper  hand  of 
him.  He  no  longer  was  the  swaggering,  bully  ruffian, 
but  affected  the  regular  merchant,  and  talked  of  retir 
ing  from  business,  and  settling  down  quietly,  to  pass 
the  rest  of  his  days  in  his  native  place. 

The  Wild  Goose  mansion  was  again  opened,  but 
with  diminished  splendor,  and  no  riot.  It  is  true, 
Vanderscamp  had  frequent  nautical  visitors,  and  the 
sound  of  revelry  was  occasionally  overheard  in  his 
house;  but  everything  seemed  to  be  done  under  the 
rose,  and  old  Pluto  was  the  only  servant  that  officiated 
at  these  orgies.  The  visitors,  indeed,  were  by  no 


214      GUESTS  FROM  GIBBET  ISLAND 

means  of  the  turbulent  stamp  of  their  predecessors; 
but  quiet,  mysterious  traders,  full  of  nods,  and  winks, 
and  hieroglyphic  signs,  with  whom,  to  use  their  cant 
phrase,  "  everything  was  smug."  Their  ships  came  to 
anchor  at  night,  in  the  lower  bay;  and,  on  a  private 
signal,  Vanderscamp  would  launch  his  boat,  and  ac 
companied  solely  by  his  man  Pluto,  would  make  them 
mysterious  visits.  Sometimes  boats  pulled  in  at  night, 
in  front  of  the  Wild  Goose,  and  various  articles  of 
merchandise  were  landed  in  the  dark,  and  spirited 
away,  nobody  knew  whither.  One  of  the  more  curious 
of  the  inhabitants  kept  watch,  and  caught  a  glimpse 
of  the  features  of  some  of  these  night  visitors,  by  the 
casual  glance  of  a  lantern,  and  declared  that  he  recog 
nized  more  than  one  of  the  freebooting  frequenters 
of  the  Wild  Goose,  in  former  times;  whence  he  con 
cluded  that  Vanderscamp  was  at  his  old  game,  and 
that  this  mysterious  merchandise  was  nothing  more  nor 
less  than  piratical  plunder.  The  more  charitable 
opinion,  however,  was,  that  Vanderscamp  and  his  com 
rades,  having  been  driven  from  their  old  line  of  busi 
ness  by  the  "  oppressions  of  government,"  had  resorted 
to  smuggling  to  make  both  ends  meet. 

Be  that  as  it  may,  I  come  now  to  the  extraordinary 
fact  which  is  the  butt-end  of  this  story.  It  happened, 
late  one  night,  that  Yan  Yost  Vanderscamp  was  re 
turning  across  the  broad  bay,  in  his  light  skiff,  rowed 
by  his  man  Pluto.  He  had  been  carousing  on  board  of 
a  vessel,  newly  arrived,  and  was  somewhat  obfuscated 
in  intellect,  by  the  liquor  he  had  imbibed.  It  was  a  still, 
sultry  night;  a  heavy  mass  of  lurid  clouds  was  rising 
in  the  west,  with  the  low  muttering  of  distant  thunder. 
Vanderscamp  called  on  Pluto  to  pull  lustily,  that  they 
might  get  home  before  the  gathering  storm.  The  old 
negro  made  no  reply,  but  shaped  his  course  so  as  to 
skirt  the  rocky  shores  of  Gibbet  Island.  A  faint  creak 
ing  overhead  caused  Vanderscamp  to  cast  up  his  eyes, 


GUESTS  FROM  GIBBET  ISLAND       215 

when,  to  his  horror,  he  beheld  the  bodies  of  his  three 
pot  companions  and  brothers  in  iniquity  dangling  in 
the  moonlight,  their  rags  fluttering,  and  their  chains 
creaking,  as  they  were  slowly  swung  backward  and 
forward  by  the  rising  breeze. 

"  What  do  you  mean,  you  blockhead !  "  cried  Van- 
derscamp,  "by  pulling  so  close  to  the  island?" 

"  I  thought  you  'd  be  glad  to  see  your  old  friends 
once  more,"  growled  the  negro ;  "  you  were  never 
afraid  of  a  living  man,  what  do  you  fear  from  the 
dead?" 

"  Who  's  afraid  ?  "  hiccoughed  Vanderscamp,  partly 
heated  by  liquor,  partly  nettled  by  the  jeer  of  the 
negro ;  "  who  's  afraid  ?  Hang  me,  but  I  would  be 
glad  to  see  them  once  more,  alive  or  dead,  at  the  Wild 
Goose.  Come,  my  lads  in  the  wind !  "  continued  he, 
taking  a  draught,  and  flourishing  the  bottle  above  his 
head,  "  here  's  fair  weather  to  you  in  the  other  world ; 
and  if  you  should  be  walking  the  rounds  to-night,  odds 
fish !  but  I  '11  be  happy  if  you  will  drop  in  to  supper." 

A  dismal  creaking  was  the  only  reply.  The  wind 
blew  loud  and  shrill,  and  as  it  whistled  round  the  gal 
lows,  and  among  the  bones,  sounded  as  if  they  were 
laughing  and  gibbering  in  the  air.  Old  Pluto  chuckled 
to  himself,  and  now  pulled  for  home.  The  storm  burst 
over  the  voyagers,  while  they  were  yet  far  from  shore. 
The  rain  fell  in  torrents,  the  thunder  crashed  and 
pealed,  and  the  lightning  kept  up  an  incessant  blaze.  It 
was  stark  midnight  before  they  landed  at  Communipaw. 

Dripping  and  shivering,  Vanderscamp  crawled 
homeward.  He  was  completely  sobered  by  the  storm, 
the  water  soaked  from  without  having  diluted  and 
cooled  the  liquor  within.  Arrived  at  the  Wild  Goose, 
he  knocked  timidly  and  dubiously  at  the  door;  for  he 
dreaded  the  reception  he  was  to  experience  from  his 
wife.  He  had  reason  to  do  so.  She  met  him  at  the 
threshold,  in  a  precious  ill-humor. 


216       GUESTS  FROM  GIBBET  ISLAND 

"  Is  this  a  time,"  said  she,  "  to  keep  people  out  of 
their  beds,  and  to  bring  home  company,  to  turn  the 
house  upside  down  ?  " 

"  Company?  "  said  Vanderscamp,  meekly,  "  I  have 
brought  no  company  with  me,  wife." 

"  No,  indeed !  they  have  got  here  before  you,  but 
by  your  invitation ;  and  blessed-looking  company  they 
are,  truly !  " 

Vanderscamp's  knees  smote  together.  "  For  the 
love  of  heaven,  where  are  they,  wife?  " 

"Where?  —  why  in  the  blue  room,  up-stairs,  mak 
ing  themselves  as  much  at  home  as  if  the  house  were 
their  own." 

Vanderscamp  made  a  desperate  effort,  scrambled 
up  to  the  room,  and  threw  open  the  door.  Sure 
enough,  there  at  a  table,  on  which  burned  a  light  as 
blue  as  brimstone,  sat  the  three  guests  from  Gibbet 
Island,  with  halters  round  their  necks,  and  bobbing 
their  cups  together,  as  if  they  were  hob-or-nobbing, 
and  trolling  the  old  Dutch  freebooter's  glee,  since 
translated  into  English :  — 

For  three  merry  lads  be  we, 
And  three  merry  lads  be  we ; 
I  on  the  land,  and  thou  on  the  sand, 
And  Jack  on  the  gallows-tree. 

Vanderscamp  saw  and  heard  no  more.  Starting 
back  with  horror,  he  missed  his  footing  on  the  landing- 
place,  and  fell  from  the  top  of  the  stairs  to  the  bottom. 
He  was  taken  up  speechless,  and,  either  from  the  fall 
or  the  fright,  was  buried  in  the  yard  of  the  little  Dutch 
church  at  Bergen,  on  the  following  Sunday. 

From  that  day  forward  the  fate  of  the  Wild  Goose 
was  sealed.  It  was  pronounced  a  haunted  house,  and 
avoided  accordingly.  No  one  inhabited  it  but  Vander 
scamp's  shrew  of  a  widow  and  old  Pluto,  and  they 
were  considered  but  little  better  than  its  hobgoblin 


GUESTS  FROM  GIBBET  ISLAND       217 

visitors.  Pluto  grew  more  and  more  haggard  and 
morose,  and  looked  more  like  an  imp  of  darkness 
than  a  human  being.  He  spoke  to  no  one,  but  went 
about  muttering  to  himself;  or,  as  some  hinted,  talk 
ing  with  the  devil,  who,  though  unseen,  was  ever  at 
his  elbow.  Now  and  then  he  was  seen  pulling  about 
the  bay  alone  in  his  skiff,  in  dark  weather,  or  at  the 
approach  of  nightfall ;  nobody  could  tell  why,  unless 
on  an  errand  to  invite  more  guests  from  the  gallows. 
Indeed,  it  was  affirmed  that  the  Wild  Goose  still  con 
tinued  to  be  a  house  of  entertainment  for  such  guests, 
and  that  on  stormy  nights  the  blue  chamber  was  oc 
casionally  illuminated,  and  sounds  of  diabolical  merri 
ment  were  overheard,  mingling  with  the  howling  of 
the  tempest.  Some  treated  these  as  idle  stories,  until 
on  one  such  night,  it  was  about  the  time  of  the  equi 
nox,  there  was  a  horrible  uproar  in  the  Wild  Goose, 
that  could  not  be  mistaken.  It  was  not  so  much  the 
sound  of  revelry,  however,  as  strife,  with  two  or  three 
piercing  shrieks,  that  pervaded  every  part  of  the  vil 
lage.  Nevertheless,  no  one  thought  of  hastening  to 
the  spot.  On  the  contrary,  the  honest  burghers  of 
Communipaw  drew  their  nightcaps  over  their  ears,  and 
buried  their  heads  under  the  bedclothes,  at  the  thoughts 
of  Vanderscamp  and  his  gallows  companions. 

The  next  morning,  some  of  the  bolder  and  more 
curious  undertook  to  reconnoitre.  All  was  quiet  and 
lifeless  at  the  Wild  Goose.  The  door  yawned  wide 
open,  and  had  evidently  been  open  all  night,  for  the 
storm  had  beaten  into  the  house.  Gathering  more 
courage  from  the  silence  and  apparent  desertion,  they 
gradually  ventured  over  the  threshold.  The  house  had 
indeed  the  air  of  having  been  possessed  by  devils. 
Everything  was  topsy-turvy;  trunks  had  been  broken 
open,  and  chests  of  drawers  and  corner  cupboards 
turned  inside  out,  as  in  a  time  of  general  sack  and 
pillage;  but  the  most  woful  sight  was  the  widow  of 


218      GUESTS  FROM  GIBBET  ISLAND 

Yan  Yost  Vanderscamp  extended  a  corpse  on  the  floor 
of  the  blue  chamber,  with  the  marks  of  a  deadly  gripe 
on  the  windpipe. 

All  now  was  conjecture  and  dismay  at  Communi- 
paw;  and  the  disappearance  of  old  Pluto,  who  was 
nowhere  to  be  found,  gave  rise  to  all  kinds  of  wild 
surmises.  Some  suggested  that  the  negro  had  be 
trayed  the  house  to  some  of  Vanderscamp' s  buccaneer 
ing  associates,  and  that  they  had  decamped  together 
with  the  booty;  others  surmised  that  the  negro  was 
nothing  more  nor  less  than  a  devil  incarnate,  who  had 
now  accomplished  his  ends,  and  made  off  with  his 
dues. 

Events,  however,  vindicated  the  negro  from  this 
last  imputation.  His  skiff  was  picked  up,  drifting 
about  the  bay,  bottom  upward,  as  if  wrecked  in  a 
tempest;  and  his  body  was  found,  shortly  afterward, 
by  some  Communipaw  fishermen,  stranded  among  the 
rocks  of  Gibbet  Island,  near  the  foot  of  the  pirates' 
gallows.  The  fishermen  shook  their  heads,  and  ob 
served  that  old  Pluto  had  ventured  once  too  often  to 
invite  Guests  from  Gibbet  Island. 


EXPERIENCES  OF  RALPH  RINGWOOD     219 


THE   EARLY   EXPERIENCES   OF 
RALPH   RINGWOOD 

NOTED  DOWN  FROM   HIS   CONVERSATIONS:   BY 
GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  GENT.1 

"  I  AM  a  Kentuckian  by  residence  and  choice,  but  a  Vir 
ginian  by  birth.  The  cause  of  my  first  leaving  the 
'  Ancient  Dominion,'  and  emigrating  to  Kentucky, 
was  a  jackass  I  You  stare,  but  have  a  little  patience, 
and  I  '11  soon  show  you  how  it  came  to  pass.  My 
father,  who  was  one  of  the  old  Virginian  families,  re 
sided  in  Richmond.  He  was  a  widower,  and  his  do 
mestic  affairs  were  managed  by  a  housekeeper  of  the 
old  school,  such  as  used  to  administer  the  concerns  of 
opulent  Virginian  households.  She  was  a  dignitary 
that  almost  rivalled  my  father  in  importance,  and 
seemed  to  think  everything  belonged  to  her;  in  fact, 
she  was  so  considerate  in  her  economy,  and  so  careful 
of  expense,  as  sometimes  to  vex  my  father,  who  would 
swear  she  was  disgracing  him  by  her  meanness.  She 
always  appeared  with  that  ancient  insignia  of  house 
keeping  trust  and  authority,  a  great  bunch  of  keys 
jingling  at  her  girdle.  She  superintended  the  arrange 
ments  of  the  table  at  every  meal,  and  saw  that  the 
dishes  were  all  placed  according  to  her  primitive 
notions  of  symmetry.  In  the  evening  she  took  her 
stand  and  served  out  tea  with  a  mingled  respectfulness 

1  Ralph  Ringwood,  though  a  fictitious  name,  is  a  real  personage, 
—  the  late  Governor  Duval  of  Florida.  I  have  given  some  anec 
dotes  of  his  early  and  eccentric  career,  in,  as  nearly  as  I  can  recol 
lect,  the  very  words  in  which  he  related  them.  They  certainly 
afford  strong  temptations  to  the  embellishments  of  fiction;  but  I 
thought  them  so  strikingly  characteristic  of  the  individual,  and  of 
the  scenes  and  society  into  which  his  peculiar  humors  carried  him, 
that  I  preferred  giving  them  in  their  original  simplicity. 


220     EXPERIENCES  OF  RALPH  RINGWOOD 

and  pride  of  station  truly  exemplary.  Her  great  am 
bition  was  to  have  everything  in  order,  and  that  the 
establishment  under  her  sway  should  be  cited  as  a 
model  of  good  housekeeping.  If  anything  went 
wrong,  poor  old  Barbara  would  take  it  to  heart,  and 
sit  in  her  room  and  cry,  until  a  few  chapters  in  the 
Bible  would  quiet  her  spirits,  and  make  all  calm  again. 
The  Bible,  in  fact,  was  her  constant  resort  in  time  of 
trouble.  She  opened  it  indiscriminately,  and  whether 
she  chanced  among  the  Lamentations  of  Jeremiah,  the 
Canticles  of  Solomon,  or  the  rough  enumeration  of  the 
tribes  in  Deuteronomy,  a  chapter  was  a  chapter, 
and  operated  like  balm  to  her  soul.  Such  was  our  good 
old  housekeeper  Barbara;  who  was  destined,  unwit 
tingly,  to  have  a  most  important  effect  upon  my 
destiny. 

"  It  came  to  pass,  during  the  days  of  my  juvenility, 
while  I  was  yet  what  is  termed  '  an  unlucky  boy,'  that 
a  gentleman  of  our  neighborhood,  a  great  advocate  for 
experiments  and  improvements  of  all  kinds,  took  it 
into  his  head  that  it  would  be  an  immense  public  ad 
vantage  to  introduce  a  breed  of  mules,  and  accordingly 
imported  three  jacks  to  stock  the  neighborhood.  This 
in  a  part  of  the  country  where  the  people  cared  for 
nothing  but  blood  horses !  Why,  sir,  they  would  have 
considered  their  mares  disgraced,  and  their  whole  stud 
dishonored,  by  such  a  misalliance.  The  whole  matter 
was  a  town-talk,  and  a  town-scandal.  The  worthy 
amalgamator  of  quadrupeds  found  himself  in  a  dis 
mal  scrape;  so  he  backed  out  in  time,  abjured  the 
whole  doctrine  of  amalgamation,  and  turned  his  jacks 
loose  to  shift  for  themselves  upon  the  town  common. 
There  they  used  to  run  about  and  lead  an  idle,  good- 
for-nothing,  holiday  life,  the  happiest  animals  in  the 
country. 

"  It  so  happened  that  my  way  to  school  lay  across 
the  common.  The  first  time  that  I  saw  one  of  these 


EXPERIENCES  OF  RALPH  RINGWOOD     221 

animals,  it  set  up  a  braying  and  frightened  me  con 
foundedly.  However,  I  soon  got  over  my  fright,  and 
seeing  that  it  had  something  of  a  horse  look,  my  Vir 
ginian  love  for  anything  of  the  equestrian  species  pre 
dominated,  and  I  determined  to  back  it.  I  accordingly 
applied  at  a  grocer's  shop,  procured  a  cord  that  had 
been  round  a  loaf  of  sugar,  and  made  a  kind  of  halter ; 
then,  summoning  some  of  my  schoolfellows,  we  drove 
master  Jack  about  the  common  until  we  hemmed  him 
in  an  angle  of  a  '  worm-fence.'  After  some  difficulty, 
we  fixed  the  halter  round  his  muzzle,  and  I  mounted. 
Up  flew  his  heels,  away  I  went  over  his  head,  and  off 
he  scampered.  However,  I  was  on  my  legs  in  a  twin 
kling,  gave  chase,  caught  him,  and  remounted.  By  dint 
of  repeated  tumbles  I  soon  learned  to  stick  to  his  back, 
so  that  he  could  no  more  cast  me  than  he  could  his 
own  skin.  From  that  time,  master  Jack  and  his  com 
panions  had  a  scampering  life  of  it,  for  we  all  rode 
them  between  school  hours,  and  on  holiday  afternoons; 
and.  you  may  be  sure  schoolboys'  nags  are  never  per 
mitted  to  suffer  the  grass  to  grow  under  their  feet. 
They  soon  became  so  knowing,  that  they  took  to  their 
heels  at  sight  of  a  schoolboy;  and  we  were  generally 
much  longer  in  chasing  than  we  were  in  riding  them. 

"  Sunday  approached,  on  which  I  projected  an 
equestrian  excursion  on  one  of  these  long-eared  steeds. 
As  I  knew  the  jacks  would  be  in  great  demand  on  Sun 
day  morning,  I  secured  one  over  night,  and  conducted 
him  home,  to  be  ready  for  an  early  outset.  But  where 
was  I  to  quarter  him  for  the  night?  I  could  not  put 
him  in  the  stable ;  our  old  black  groom  George  was  as 
absolute  in  that  domain  as  Barbara  was  within  doors, 
and  would  have  thought  his  stable,  his  horses,  and  him 
self  disgraced  by  the  introduction  of  a  jackass.  I 
recollected  the  smoke-house,  —  an  out-building  ap 
pended  to  all  Virginian  establishments,  for  the  smok 
ing  of  hams  and  other  kinds  of  meat.  So  I  got  the 


222     EXPERIENCES  OF  RALPH  RINGWOOD 

key,  put  master  Jack  in,  locked  the  door,  returned  the 
key  to  its  place,  and  went  to  bed,  intending  to  release 
my  prisoner  at  an  early  hour,  before  any  of  the  family 
were  awake.  I  was  so  tired,  however,  by  the  exertions 
I  had  made  in  catching  the  donkey,  that  I  fell  into  a 
sound  sleep,  and  the  morning  broke  without  my 
waking. 

"  Not  so  with  Dame  Barbara,  the  housekeeper.  As 
usual,  to  use  her  own  phrase,  '  she  was  up  before  the 
crow  put  his  shoes  on,'  and  bustled  about  to  get  things 
in  order  for  breakfast.  Her  first  resort  was  to  the 
smoke-house.  Scarce  had  she  opened  the  door,  when 
master  Jack,  tired  of  his  confinement,  and  glad  to  be 
released  from  darkness,  gave  a  loud  bray,  and  rushed 
forth.  Down  dropped  old  Barbara;  the  animal  tram 
pled  over  her,  and  made  off  for  the  common.  Poor 
Barbara!  She  had  never  before  seen  a  donkey;  and 
having  read  in  the  Bible  that  the  Devil  went  about  like 
a  roaring  lion,  seeking  whom  he  might  devour,  she 
took  it  for  granted  that  this  was  Beelzebub  himself. 
The  kitchen  was  soon  in  a  hubbub;  the  servants  hur 
ried  to  the  spot.  There  lay  old  Barbara  in  fits;  as 
fast  as  she  got  out  of  one,  the  thoughts  of  the  Devil 
came  over  her,  and  she  fell  into  another,  for  the  good 
soul  was  devoutly  superstitious. 

"  As  ill  luck  would  have  it,  among  those  attracted 
by  the  noise,  was  a  little  cursed,  fidgety,  crabbed  uncle 
of  mine;  one  of  those  uneasy  spirits  that  cannot  rest 
quietly  in  their  beds  in  the  morning,  but  must  be  up 
early,  to  bother  the  household.  He  was  only  a  kind 
of  half-uncle,  after  all,  for  he  had  married  my  father's 
sister;  yet  he  assumed  great  authority  on  the  strength 
of  this  left-handed  relationship,  and  was  a  universal 
intermeddler  and  family  pest.  This  prying  little  busy 
body  soon  ferreted  out  the  truth  of  the  story,  and  dis 
covered,  by  hook  and  by  crook,  that  I  was  at  the  bot 
tom  of  the  affair,  and  had  locked  up  the  donkey  in 


EXPERIENCES  OF  RALPH  RINGWOOD     223 

the  smoke-house.  He  stopped  to  inquire  no  farther, 
for  he  was  one  of  those  testy  curmudgeons  with  whom 
unlucky  boys  are  always  in  the  wrong.  Leaving  old 
Barbara  to  wrestle  in  imagination  with  the  Devil,  he 
made  for  my  bedchamber,  where  I  still  lay  wrapped 
in  rosy  slumbers,  little  dreaming  of  the  mischief  I 
had  done,  and  the  storm  about  to  break  over  me. 

"  In  an  instant  I  was  awakened  by  a  shower  of 
thwacks,  and  started  up  in  wild  amazement.  I  de 
manded  the  meaning  of  this  attack,  but  received  no 
other  reply  than  that  I  had  murdered  the  housekeeper ; 
while  my  uncle  continued  thwacking  away  during  my 
confusion.  I  seized  a  poker,  and  put  myself  on  the 
defensive.  I  was  a  stout  boy  for  my  years,  while  my 
uncle  was  a  little  wiffet  of  a  man ;  one  that  in  Ken 
tucky  we  would  not  call  even  an  '  individual ' ;  noth 
ing  more  than  a  remote  circumstance.'  I  soon,  there 
fore,  brought  him  to  a  parley,  and  learned  the  whole 
extent  of  the  charge  brought  against  me.  I  confessed 
to  the  donkey  and  the  smoke-house,  but  pleaded  not 
guilty  of  the  murder  of  the  housekeeper.  I  soon  found 
out  that  old  Barbara  was  still  alive.  She  continued 
under  the  doctor's  hands,  however,  for  several  days; 
and  whenever  she  had  an  ill  turn,  my  uncle  would  seek 
to  give  me  another  flogging.  I  appealed  to  my  father, 
but  got  no  redress.  I  was  considered  an  '  unlucky 
boy,'  prone  to  all  kinds  of  mischief;  so  that  prepos 
sessions  were  against  me,  in  all  cases  of  appeal. 

"  I  felt  stung  to  the  soul  at  all  this.  I  had  been 
beaten,  degraded,  and  treated  with  slighting  when  I 
complained.  I  lost  my  usual  good  spirits  and  good- 
humor;  and,  being  out  of  temper  with  everybody, 
fancied  everybody  out  of  temper  with  me.  A  certain 
wild,  roving  spirit  of  freedom,  which  I  believe  is  as 
inherent  in  me  as  it  is  in  the  partridge,  was  brought 
into  sudden  activity  by  the  checks  and  restraints  I 
suffered.  '  I  '11  go  from  home/  thought  I,  '  and  shift 


224     EXPERIENCES  OF  RALPH  RINGWOOD 

for  myself.'  Perhaps  this  notion  was  quickened  by 
the  rage  for  emigrating  to  Kentucky  which  was  at  that 
time  prevalent  in  Virginia.  I  had  heard  such  stories 
of  the  romantic  beauties  of  the  country,  of  the  abun 
dance  of  game  of  all  kinds,  and  of  the  glorious  inde 
pendent  life  of  the  hunters  who  ranged  its  noble  forests, 
and  lived  by  the  rifle,  that  I  was  as  much  agog  to  get 
there  as  boys  who  live  in  seaports  are  to  launch  them 
selves  among  the  wonders  and  adventures  of  the  ocean. 

"  After  a  time,  old  Barbara  got  better  in  mind  and 
body,  and  matters  were  explained  to  her;  and  she 
became  gradually  convinced  that  it  was  not  the  Devil 
she  had  encountered.  When  she  heard  how  harshly 
I-  had  been  treated  on  her  account,  the  good  old  soul 
was  extremely  grieved,  and  spoke  warmly  to  my  father 
in  my  behalf.  He  had  himself  remarked  the  change 
in  my  behavior,  and  thought  punishment  might  have 
been  carried  too  far.  He  sought,  therefore,  to  have 
some  conversation  with  me,  and  to  soothe  my  feelings ; 
but  it  was  too  late.  I  frankly  told  him  the  course  of 
mortification  that  I  had  experienced,  and  the  fixed  de 
termination  I  had  made  to  go  from  home. 

"  '  And  where  do  you  mean  to  go  ?  ' 

"  '  To  Kentucky.'  ' 

"  '  To  Kentucky !    Why,  you  know  nobody  there.' 

"  '  No  matter;    I  can  soon  make  acquaintances.' 

"  '  And  what  will  you  do  when  you  get  there  ? ' 

"'Hunt!' 

"  My  father  gave  a  long,  low  whistle,  and  looked  in 
my  face  with  a  serio-comic  expression.  I  was  not  far 
in  my  teens,  and  to  talk  of  setting  off"  alone  for  Ken 
tucky,  to  turn  hunter,  seemed  doubtless  the  idle  prattle 
of  a  boy.  He  was  little  aware  of  the  dogged  resolu 
tion  of  my  character;  and  his  smile  of  incredulity  but 
fixed  me  more  obstinately  in  my  purpose.  I  assured 
him  I  was  serious  in  what  I  said,  and  would  certainly 
set  off  for  Kentucky  in  the  spring. 


EXPERIENCES  OF  RALPH  RINGWOOD     225 

"  Month  after  month  passed  away.  My  father  now 
and  then  adverted  slightly  to  what  had  passed  between 
us ;  doubtless  for  the  purpose  of  sounding  me.  I  always 
expressed  the  same  grave  and  fixed  determination.  By 
degrees  he  spoke  to  me  more  directly  on  the  subject, 
endeavoring  earnestly  but  kindly  to  dissuade  me.  My 
only  reply  was,  '  I  had  made  up  my  mind.' 

"  Accordingly,  as  soon  as  the  spring  had  fairly 
opened,  I  sought  him  one  day  in  his  study,  and  in 
formed  him  I  was  about  to  set  out  for  Kentucky,  and 
had  come  to  take  my  leave.  He  made  no  objection, 
for  he  had  exhausted  persuasion  and  remonstrance, 
and  doubtless  thought  it  best  to  give  way  to  my  humor, 
trusting  that  a  little  rough  experience  would  soon  bring 
me  home  again.  I  asked  money  for  my  journey.  He 
went  to  a  chest,  took  out  a  long  green  silk  purse,  well 
filled,  and  laid  it  on  the  table.  I  now  asked  for  a  horse 
and  servant. 

"  '  A  horse ! '  said  my  father,  sneeringly,  '  why,  you 
would  not  go  a  mile  without  racing  him,  and  breaking 
your  neck;  and  as  to  a  servant,  you  cannot  take  care 
of  yourself,  much  less  of  him.' 

"  '  How  am  I  to  travel,  then  ? ' 

"  '  Why,  I  suppose  you  are  man  enough  to  travel  on 
foot.' 

"  He  spoke  jestingly,  little  thinking  I  would  take 
him  at  his  word;  but  I  was  thoroughly  piqued  in 
respect  to  my  enterprise ;  so  I  pocketed  the  purse,  went 
to  my  room,  tied  up  three  or  four  shirts  in  a  pocket- 
handkerchief,  put  a  dirk  in  my  bosom,  girt  a  couple  of 
pistols  round  my  waist,  and  felt  like  a  knight-errant 
armed  cap-a-pie,  and  ready  to  rove  the  world  in  quest 
of  adventures. 

"  My  sister  (I  had  but  one)  hung  round  me  and 
wept,  and  entreated  me  to  stay.  I  felt  my  heart  swell 
in  my  throat;  but  I  gulped  it  back  to  its  place,  and 
straightened  myself  up:  I  would  not  suffer  myself  to 


226     EXPERIENCES  OF  RALPH  RINGWOOD 

cry.  I  at  length  disengaged  myself  from  her,  and  got 
to  the  door. 

"  '  When  will  you  come  back  ?  '  cried  she. 

"  '  Never,  by  heavens ! '  cried  I,  '  until  I  come  back 
a  member  of  Congress  from  Kentucky.  I  am  deter 
mined  to  show  that  I  am  not  the  tail-end  of  the  family.' 

"  Such  was  my  first  outset  from  home.  You  may 
suppose  what  a  greenhorn  I  was,  and  how  little  I  knew 
of  the  world  I  was  launching  into. 

"  I  do  not  recollect  any  incident  of  importance  until 
I  reached  the  borders  of  Pennsylvania.  I  had  stopped 
at  an  inn  to  get  some  refreshment ;  as  I  was  eating  in 
a  back-room,  I  overheard  two  men  in  the  bar-room 
conjecture  who  and  what  I  could  be.  One  determined, 
at  length,  that  I  was  a  runaway  apprentice,  and  ought 
to  be  stopped,  to  which  the  other  assented.  When  I 
had  finished  my  meal,  and  paid  for  it,  I  went  out  at 
the  back-door,  lest  I  should  be  stopped  by  my  super 
visors.  Scorning,  however,  to  steal  off  like  a  culprit, 
I  walked  round  to  the  front  of  the  house.  One  of  the 
men  advanced  to  the  front-door.  He  wore  his  hat  on 
one  side,  and  had  a  consequential  air  that  nettled  me. 

"  '  Where  are  you  going,  youngster?  '  demanded  he. 

"  '  That 's  none  of  your  business ! '  replied  I,  rather 
pertly. 

"  '  Yes,  but  it  is  though !  You  have  run  away  from 
home,  and  must  give  an  account  of  yourself.' 

"  He  advanced  to  seize  me,  when  I  drew  forth  a 
pistol.  '  If  you  advance  another  step,  I  '11  shoot  you ! ' 

"  He  sprang  back  as  if  he  had  trodden  upon  a  rattle 
snake,  and  his  hat  fell  off  in  the  movement. 

"  '  Let  him  alone ! '  cried  his  companion ;  '  he  's  a 
foolish,  mad-headed  boy,  and  don't  know  what  he  's 
about.  He  '11  shoot  you,  you  may  rely  on  it.' 

"  He  did  not  need  any  caution  in  the  matter ;  he  was 
afraid  even  to  pick  up  his  hat;  so  I  pushed  forward 
on  my  way  without  molestation.  This  incident,  how- 


EXPERIENCES  OF  RALPH  RINGWOOD    227 

ever,  had  its  effect  upon  me.  I  became  fearful  of 
sleeping  in  any  house  at  night,  lest  I  should  be  stopped. 
I  took  my  meals  in  the  houses,  in  the  course  of  the 
day,  but  would  turn  aside  at  night  into  some  wood  or 
ravine,  make  a  fire,  and  sleep  before  it.  This  I  con 
sidered  was  true  hunter's  style,  and  I  wished  to  inure 
myself  to  it. 

"  At  length  I  arrived  at  Brownsville,  leg-weary  and 
wayworn,  and  in  a  shabby  plight,  as  you  may  suppose, 
having  been  '  camping  out '  for  some  nights  past.  I 
applied  at  some  of  the  inferior  inns,  but  could  gain  no 
admission.  I  was  regarded  for  a  moment  with  a  dubi 
ous  eye,  and  then  informed  they  did  not  receive  foot- 
passengers.  At  last  I  went  boldly  to  the  principal  inn. 
The  landlord  appeared  as  unwilling  as  the  rest  to  re 
ceive  a  vagrant  boy  beneath  his  roof;  but  his  wife 
interfered  in  the  midst  of  his  excuses,  and,  half  elbow 
ing  him  aside,  — 

"  '  Where  are  you  going,  my  lad  ?  '  said  she. 
'•To  Kentucky.' 

"  '  What  are  you  going  there  for?  ' 
'  To  hunt.' 

"  She  looked  earnestly  at  me  for  a  moment  or  two. 
*  Have  you  a  mother  living?  '  said  she  at  length. 

"  '  No,  madam ;   she  has  been  dead  for  some  time.' 

"  '  I  thought  so ! '  cried  she,  warmly.  '  I  knew  if 
you  had  a  mother  living,  you  would  not  be  here.'  From 
that  moment  the  good  woman  treated  me  with  a 
mother's  kindness. 

"  I  remained  several  days  beneath  her  roof,  recover 
ing  from  the  fatigue  of  my  journey.  While  here,  I 
purchased  a  rifle,  and  practised  daily  at  a  mark,  to  pre 
pare  myself  for  a  hunter's  life.  When  sufficiently  re 
cruited  in  strength,  I  took  leave  of  my  kind  host  and 
hostess,  and  resumed  my  journey. 

"  At  Wheeling  I  embarked  in  a  flat-bottomed  family 
boat,  technically  called  a  broad-horn,  a  prime  river 


228     EXPERIENCES  OF  RALPH  RINGWOOD 

conveyance  in  those  days.  In  this  ark  for  two  weeks 
I  floated  down  the  Ohio.  The  river  was  as  yet  in  all 
its  wild  beauty.  Its  loftiest  trees  had  not  been  thinned 
out.  The  forest  overhung  the  water's  edge,  and  was 
occasionally  skirted  by  immense  canebrakes.  Wild 
animals  of  all  kinds  abounded.  We  heard  them  rush 
ing  through  the  thickets  and  plashing  in  the  water. 
Deer  and  bears  would  frequently  swim  across  the  river ; 
others  would  come  down  to  the  bank,  and  gaze  at  the 
boat  as  it  passed.  I  was  incessantly  on  the  alert  with 
my  rifle;  but,  somehow  or  other,  the  game  was  never 
within  shot.  Sometimes  I  got  a  chance  to  land  and 
try  my  skill  on  shore.  I  shot  squirrels,  and  small  birds, 
and  even  wild  turkeys;  but  though  I  caught  glimpses 
of  deer  bounding  away  through  the  woods,  I  never 
could  get  a  fair  shot  at  them. 

"  In  this  way  we  glided  in  our  broad-horn  past 
Cincinnati,  the  '  Queen  of  the  West,'  as  she  is  now 
called,  then  a  mere  group  of  log-cabins;  and  the  site 
of  the  bustling  city  of  Louisville,  then  designated  by 
a  solitary  house.  As  I  said  before,  the  Ohio  was  as  yet 
a  wild  river;  all  was  forest,  forest,  forest!  Near  the 
confluence  of  Green  River  with  the  Ohio  I  landed,  bade 
adieu  to  the  broad-horn,  and  struck  for  the  interior  of 
Kentucky.  I  had  no  precise  plan;  my  only  idea  was 
to  make  for  one  of  the  wildest  parts  of  the  country. 
I  had  relatives  in  Lexington  and  other  settled  places,  to 
whom  I  thought  it  probable  my  father  would  write 
concerning  me;  so,  as  I  was  full  of  manhood  and 
independence,  and  resolutely  bent  on  making  my  way 
in  the  world  without  assistance  or  control,  I  resolved 
to  keep  clear  of  them  all. 

"  In  the  course  of  my  first  day's  trudge  I  shot  a 
wild  turkey,  and  slung  it  on  my  back  for  provisions. 
The  forest  was  open  and  clear  from  underwood.  I 
saw  deer  in  abundance,  but  always  running,  running. 
It  seemed  to  me  as  if  these  animals  never  stood  still. 


EXPERIENCES  OF  RALPH  RINGWOOD     229 

"  At  length  I  came  to  where  a  gang  of  half-starved 
wolves  were  feasting  on  the  carcass  of  a  deer  which 
they  had  run  down,  and  snarling  and  snapping,  and 
fighting  like  so  many  dogs.  They  were  all  so  ravenous 
and  intent  upon  their  prey  that  they  did  not  notice 
me,  and  I  had  time  to  make  my  observations.  One, 
larger  and  fiercer  than  the  rest,  seemed  to  claim  the 
larger  share,  and  to  keep  the  others  in  awe.  If  any 
one  came  too  near  him  while  eating,  he  would  fly  off, 
seize  and  shake  him,  and  then  return  to  his  repast. 
'  This,'  thought  I,  'must  be  the  captain;  if  I  can  kill 
him,  I  shall  defeat  the  whole  army.'  I  accordingly 
took  aim,  fired,  and  down  dropped  the  old  fellow.  He 
might  be  only  shamming  dead;  so  I  loaded  and  put 
a  second  ball  through  him.  He  never  budged ;  all  the 
rest  ran  off,  and  my  victory  was  complete. 

"  It  would  not  be  easy  to  describe  my  triumphant 
feelings  on  this  great  achievement.  I  marched  on  with 
renovated  spirit,  regarding  myself  as  absolute  lord  of 
the  forest.  As  night  drew  near,  I  prepared  for  camping. 
My  first  care  was  to  collect  dry  wood  and  make  a  roar 
ing  fire  to  cook  and  sleep  by,  and  to  frighten  off  wolves, 
and  bears,  and  panthers.  I  then  began  to  pluck  my 
turkey  for  supper.  I  had  camped  out  several  times  in 
the  early  part  of  my  expedition ;  but  that  was  in  com 
paratively  more  settled  and  civilized  regions,  where 
there  were  no  wild  animals  of  consequence  in  the 
forest.  This  was  my  first  camping  out  in  the  real  wil 
derness,  and  I  was  soon  made  sensible  of  the  loneliness 
and  wildness  of  my  situation. 

"  In  a  little  while  a  concert  of  wolves  commenced ; 
there  might  have  been  a  dozen  or  two,  but  it  seemed 
to  me  as  if  there  were  thousands.  I  never  heard  such 
howling  and  whining.  Having  prepared  my  turkey, 
I  divided  it  into  two  parts,  thrust  two  sticks  into  one 
of  the  halves,  and  planted  them  on  end  before  the 
fire,  —  the  hunter's  mode  of  roasting.  The  smell  of 


230     EXPERIENCES  OF  RALPH  RINGWOOD 

roast  meat  quickened  the  appetites  of  the  wolves,  and 
their  concert  became  truly  infernal.  They  seemed  to 
be  all  around  me,  but  I  could  only  now  and  then  get 
a  glimpse  of  one  of  them,  as  he  came  within  the  glare 
of  the  light. 

"  I  did  not  much  care  for  the  wolves,  who  I  knew 
to  be  a  cowardly  race,  but  I  had  heard  terrible  stories 
of  panthers,  and  began  to  fear  their  stealthy  prowlings 
in  the  surrounding  darkness.  I  was  thirsty,  and  heard 
a  brook  bubbling  and  tinkling  along  at  no  great  dis 
tance,  but  absolutely  dared  not  go  there,  lest  some 
panther  might  lie  in  wait  and  spring  upon  me.  By  and 
by  a  deer  whistled.  I  had  never  heard  one  before, 
and  thought  it  must  be  a  panther.  I  now  felt  uneasy 
lest  he  might  climb  the  trees,  crawl  along  the  branches 
overhead,  and  plump  down  upon  me;  so  I  kept  my 
eyes  fixed  on  the  branches,  until  my  head  ached.  I 
more  than  once  thought  I  saw  fiery  eyes  glaring  down 
from  among  the  leaves.  At  length  I  thought  of  my 
supper,  and  turned  to  see  if  my  half  turkey  was  cooked. 
In  crowding  so  near  the  fire,  I  had  pressed  the  meat 
into  the  flames,  and  it  was  consumed.  I  had  nothing 
to  do  but  toast  the  other  half,  and  take  better  care  of 
it.  On  that  half  I  made  my  supper,  without  salt  or 
bread.  I  was  still  so  possessed  with  the  dread  of  pan 
thers,  that  I  could  not  close  my  eyes  all  night,  but  lay 
watching  the  trees  until  daybreak,  when  all  my  fears 
were  dispelled  with  the  darkness;  and  as  I  saw  the 
morning  sun  sparkling  down  through  the  branches 
of  the  trees,  I  smiled  to  think  how  I  suffered  myself 
to  be  dismayed  by  sounds  and  shadows;  but  I  was  a 
young  woodsman,  and  a  stranger  in  Kentucky. 

"  Having  breakfasted  on  the  remainder  of  my  tur 
key  and  slaked  my  thirst  at  the  bubbling  stream,  with 
out  farther  dread  of  panthers,  I  resumed  my  wayfaring 
with  buoyant  feelings.  I  again  saw  deer,  but,  as  usual, 
running,  running !  I  tried  in  vain  to  get  a  shot  at  them, 


EXPERIENCES  OF  RALPH  RINGWOOD     231 

and  began  to  fear  I  never  should.  I  was  gazing  with 
vexation  after  a  herd  in  full  scamper,  when  I  was 
startled  by  a  human  voice.  Turning  round,  I  saw  a 
man  at  a  short  distance  from  me  in  a  hunting-dress. 

"  '  What  are  you  after,  my  lad  ?  '  cried  he. 

"  '  Those  deer,'  replied  I,  pettishly ;  '  but  it  seems 
as  if  they  never  stand  still.' 

"  Upon  that  he  burst  out  laughing.  '  Where  are 
you  from  ?  '  said  he. 

"  '  From  Richmond.' 

"'What!    In  old  Virginny?' 

"  '  The  same.' 

"  *  And  how  on  earth  did  you  get  here  ? ' 

"  '  I  landed  at  Green  River  from  a  broad-horn.' 

"  '  And  where  are  your  companions  ?  ' 

"  '  I  have  none.' 

"'What?  — all  alone!' 

"  '  Yes.' 

"  *  Where  are  you  going?  ' 

"  '  Anywhere.' 

"  *  And  what  have  you  come  here  for  ? ' 

"  '  To  hunt.' 

"  '  Well,'  said  he,  laughingly,  '  you  '11  make  a  real 
hunter ;  there  's  no  mistaking  that ! 

"  '  Have  you  killed  anything?  ' 

"  '  Nothing  but  a  turkey ;  I  can't  get  within  shot  of 
a  deer;  they  are  always  running.' 

"  '  Oh,  I  '11  tell  you  the  secret  of  that.  You  're  al 
ways  pushing  forward,  and  starting  the  deer  at  a  dis 
tance,  and  gazing  at  those  that  are  scampering;  but 
you  must  step  as  slow  and  silent  and  cautious  as  a 
cat,  and  keep  your  eyes  close  around  you,  and  lurk  from 
tree  to  tree,  if  you  wish  to  get  a  chance  at  deer.  But 
come,  go  home  with  me.  My  name  is  Bill  Smithers; 
I  live  not  far  off :  stay  with  me  a  little  while,  and  I  '11 
teach  you  how  to  hunt.' 

"  I   gladly  accepted  the   invitation   of   honest   Bill 


232     EXPERIENCES  OF  RALPH  RINGWOOD 

Smithers.  We  soon  reached  his  habitation ;  a  mere 
log-hut,  with  a  square  hole  for  a  window,  and  a  chim 
ney  made  of  sticks  and  clay.  Here  he  lived,  with  a 
wife  and  child.  He  had  '  girdled  '  the  trees  for  an 
acre  or  two  around,  preparatory  to  clearing  a  space 
for  corn  and  potatoes.  In  the  mean  time  he  main 
tained  his  family  entirely  by  his  rifle,  and  I  soon  found 
him  to  be  a  first-rate  huntsman.  Under  his  tutelage 
I  received  my  first  effective  lessons  in  '  woodcraft.' 

"  The  more  I  knew  of  a  hunter's  life,  the  more  I 
relished  it.  The  country,  too,  which  had  been  the 
promised  land  of  my  boyhood,  did  not,  like  most  prom 
ised  lands,  disappoint  me.  No  wilderness  could  be 
more  beautiful  than  this  part  of  Kentucky  in  those 
times.  The  forests  were  open  and  spacious,  with  noble 
trees,  some  of  which  looked  as  if  they  had  stood  for 
centuries.  There  were  beautiful  prairies,  too,  diversi 
fied  with  groves  and  clumps  of  trees,  which  looked  like 
vast  parks,  and  in  which  you  could  see  the  deer  run 
ning,  at  a  great  distance.  In  the  proper  season,  these 
prairies  would  be  covered  in  many  places  with  wild 
strawberries,  where  your  horse's  hoofs  would  be  dyed 
to  the  fetlock.  I  thought  there  could  not  be  another 
place  in  the  world  equal  to  Kentucky,  —  and  I  think 
so  still. 

"  After  I  had  passed  ten  or  twelve  days  with  Bill 
Smithers,  I  thought  it  time  to  shift  my  quarters,  for 
his  house  was  scarce  large  enough  for  his  own  family, 
and  I  had  no  idea  of  being  an  encumbrance  to  any  one. 
I  accordingly  made  up  my  bundle,  shouldered  my  rifle, 
took  a  friendly  leave  of  Smithers  and  his  wife,  and  set 
out  in  quest  of  a  Nimrod  of  the  wilderness,  one  John 
Miller,  who  lived  alone,  nearly  forty  miles  off,  and 
who  I  hoped  would  be  well  pleased  to  have  a  hunting 
companion. 

"  I  soon  found  out  that  one  of  the  most  important 
items  in  woodcraft,  in  a  new  country,  was  the  skill  to 


EXPERIENCES  OF  RALPH  RINGWOOD     233 

find  one's  way  in  the  wilderness.  There  were  no 
regular  roads  in  the  forests,  but  they  were  cut  up  and 
perplexed  by  paths  leading  in  all  directions.  Some  of 
these  were  made  by  the  cattle  of  the  settlers,  and  were 
called  '  stock-tracks,'  but  others  had  been  made  by  the 
immense  droves  of  buffaloes  which  roamed  about  the 
country  from  the  flood  until  recent  times.  These  were 
called  buffalo-tracks,  and  traversed  Kentucky  from  end 
to  end,  like  highways.  Traces  of  them  may  still  be 
seen  in  uncultivated  parts,  or  deeply  worn  in  the  rocks 
where  they  crossed  the  mountains.  I  was  a  young 
woodsman,  and  sorely  puzzled  to  distinguish  one  kind 
of  track  from  the  other,  or  to  make  out  my  course 
through  this  tangled  labyrinth.  While  thus  perplexed, 
I  heard  a  distant  roaring  and  rushing  sound ;  a  gloom 
stole  over  the  forest.  On  looking  up,  when  I  could 
catch  a  stray  glimpse  of  the  sky,  I  beheld  the  clouds 
rolled  up  like  balls,  the  lower  part  as  black  as  ink. 
There  was  now  and  then  an  explosion,  like  a  burst  of 
cannonry  afar  off,  and  the  crash  of  a  falling  tree.  I 
had  heard  of  hurricanes  in  the  woods,  and  surmised 
that  one  was  at  hand.  It  soon  came  crashing  its  way, 
the  forest  writhing,  and  twisting,  and  groaning  before 
it.  The  hurricane  did  not  extend  far  on  either  side, 
but  in  a  manner  ploughed  a  furrow  through  the  wood 
land,  snapping  off  or  uprooting  trees  that  had  stood 
for  centuries,  and  filling  the  air  with  whirling  branches. 
I  was  directly  in  its  course,  and  took  my  stand  behind 
an  immense  poplar,  six  feet  in  diameter.  It  bore  for 
a  time  the  full  fury  of  the  blast,  but  at  length  began 
to  yield.  Seeing  it  falling,  I  scrambled  nimbly  round 
the  trunk  like  a  squirrel.  Down  it  went,  bearing  down 
another  tree  with  it.  I  crept  under  the  trunk  as  a 
shelter,  and  was  protected  from  other  trees  which  fell 
around  me,  but  was  sore  all  over,  from  the  twigs  and 
branches  driven  against  me  by  the  blast. 

"  This  was  the  only  incident  of  consequence  that 


234     EXPERIENCES  OF  RALPH   RINGWOOD 

occurred  on  my  way  to  John  Miller's,  where  I  arrived 
on  the  following  day,  and  was  received  by  the  veteran 
with  the  rough  kindness  of  a  backwoodsman.  He  was 
a  gray-haired  man,  hardy  and  weather-beaten,  with  a 
blue  wart,  like  a  great  bead,  over  one  eye,  whence  he 
was  nicknamed  by  the  hunters,  '  Blue-bead  Miller.' 
He  had  been  in  these  parts  from  the  earliest  settle 
ments,  and  had  signalized  himself  in  the  hard  conflicts 
with  the  Indians,  which  gained  Kentucky  the  appella 
tion  of  '  the  Bloody  Ground.'  In  one  of  these  rights 
he  had  had  an  arm  broken;  in  another  he  had  nar 
rowly  escaped,  when  hotly  pursued,  by  jumping  from  a 
precipice  thirty  feet  high  into  a  river. 

"  Miller  willingly  received  me  into  his  house  as  an 
inmate,  and  seemed  pleased  with  the  idea  of  making 
a  hunter  of  me.  His  dwelling  was  a  small  log-house, 
with  a  loft  or  garret  of  boards,  so  that  there  was  ample 
room  for  both  of  us.  Under  his  instruction,  I  soon 
made  a  tolerable  proficiency  in  hunting.  My  first  ex 
ploit  of  any  consequence  was  killing  a  bear.  I  was 
hunting  in  company  with  two  brothers,  when  we  came 
upon  the  track  of  Bruin,  in  a  wood  where  there  was 
an  undergrowth  of  canes  and  grape-vines.  He  was 
scrambling  up  a  tree,  when  I  shot  him  through  the 
breast ;  he  fell  to  the  ground,  and  lay  motionless.  The 
brothers  sent  in  their  dog,  who  seized  the  bear  by  the 
throat.  Bruin  raised  one  arm,  and  gave  the  dog  a 
hug  that  crushed  his  ribs.  One  yell,  and  all  was  over. 
I  don't  know  which  was  first  dead,  the  dog  or  the  bear. 
The  two  brothers  sat  down  and  cried  like  children  over 
their  unfortunate  dog.  Yet  they  were  mere  rough 
huntsmen,  almost  as  wild  and  untamable  as  Indians; 
but  they  were  fine  fellows. 

"  By  degrees  I  became  known,  and  somewhat  of  a 
favorite  among  the  hunters  of  the  neighborhood ;  that 
is  to  say,  men  who  lived  within  a  circle  of  thirty  or 
forty  miles,  and  came  occasionally  to  see  John  Miller, 


EXPERIENCES  OF  RALPH  RINGWOOD     235 

who  was  a  patriarch  among  them.  They  lived  widely 
apart,  in  log-huts  and  wigwams,  almost  with  the  sim 
plicity  of  Indians,  and  wellnigh  as  destitute  of  the 
comforts  and  inventions  of  civilized  life.  They  seldom 
saw  each  other ;  weeks,  and  even  months  would  elapse, 
without  their  visiting.  When  they  did  meet,  it  was 
very  much  after  the  manner  of  Indians ;  loitering  about 
all  day,  without  having  much  to  say,  but  becoming 
communicative  as  evening  advanced,  and  sitting  up 
half  the  night  before  the  fire,  telling  hunting-stories, 
and  terrible  tales  of  the  fights  of  the  Bloody  Ground. 

"  Sometimes  several  would  join  in  a  distant  hunting 
expedition,  or  rather  campaign.  Expeditions  of  this 
kind  lasted  from  November  until  April,  during  which 
we  laid  up  our  stock  of  summer  provisions.  We  shifted 
our  hunting-camps  from  place  to  place,  according  as 
we  found  the  game.  They  were  generally  pitched 
near  a  run  of  water,  and  close  by  a  canebrake,  to  screen 
us  from  the  wind.  One  side  of  our  lodge  was  open 
towards  the  fire.  Our  horses  were  hoppled  and  turned 
loose  in  the  canebrakes,  with  bells  round  their  necks. 
One  of  the  party  stayed  at  home  to  watch  the  camp, 
prepare  the  meals,  and  keep  off  the  wolves ;  the  others 
hunted.  When  a  hunter  killed  a  deer  at  a  distance 
from  the  camp,  he  would  open  it  and  take  out  the 
entrails;  then,  climbing  a  sapling,  he  would  bend 
it  down,  tie  the  deer  to  the  top,  and  let  it  spring  up 
again,  so  as  to  suspend  the  carcass  out  of  reach  of  the 
wolves.  At  night  he  would  return  to  the  camp,  and 
give  an  account  of  his  luck.  The  next  morning  early 
he  would  get  a  horse  out  of  the  canebrake  and  bring 
home  his  game.  That  day  he  would  stay  at  home  to 
cut  up  the  carcass,  while  the  others  hunted. 

"  Our  days  were  thus  spent  in  silent  and  lonely  oc 
cupations.  It  was  only  at  night  that  we  would  gather 
together  before  the  fire,  and  be  sociable.  I  was  a 
novice,  and  used  to  listen  with  open  eyes  and  ears  to 


236     EXPERIENCES  OF  RALPH  RINGWOOD 

the  strange  and  wild  stories  told  by  the  old  hunters, 
and  believed  everything  I  heard.  Some  of  their  stories 
bordered  upon  the  supernatural.  They  believed  that 
their  rifles  might  be  spellbound,  so  as  not  to  be  able 
to  kill  a  buffalo,  even  at  arm's  length.  This  supersti 
tion  they  had  derived  from  the  Indians,  who  often 
think  the  white  hunters  have  laid  a  spell  upon  their 
rifles.  Miller  partook  of  this  superstition,  and  used 
to  tell  of  his  rifle's  having  a  spell  upon  it ;  but  it  often 
seemed  to  me  to  be  a  shuffling  way  of  accounting  for 
a  bad  shot.  If  a  hunter  grossly  missed  his  aim,  he 
would  ask,  '  Who  shot  last  with  his  rifle  ? '  —  and 
hint  that  he  must  have  charmed  it.  The  sure  mode 
to  disenchant  the  gun  was  to  shoot  a  silver  bullet  out 
of  it. 

"  By  the  opening  of  spring  we  would  generally  have 
quantities  of  bear's  meat  and  venison  salted,  dried, 
and  smoked,  and  numerous  packs  of  skins.  We  would 
then  make  the  best  of  our  way  home  from  our  distant 
hunting-grounds,  transporting  our  spoils,  sometimes  in 
canoes  along  the  rivers,  sometimes  on  horseback  over 
land,  and  our  return  would  often  be  celebrated  by 
feasting  and  dancing,  in  true  backwoods  style.  I  have 
given  you  some  idea  of  our  hunting;  let  me  now  give 
you  a  sketch  of  our  frolicking. 

"  It  was  on  our  return  from  a  winter's  hunting  in 
the  neighborhood  of  Green  River,  when  we  received 
notice  that  there  was  to  be  a  grand  frolic  at  Bob 
Mosely's,  to  greet  the  hunters.  This  Bob  Mosely  was 
a  prime  fellow  throughout  the  country.  He  was  an 
indifferent  hunter,  it  is  true,  and  rather  lazy,  to  boot; 
but  then  he  could  play  the  fiddle,  and  that  was  enough 
to  make  him  of  consequence.  There  was  no  other  man 
within  a  hundred  miles  that  could  play  the  fiddle,  so 
there  was  no  having  a  regular  frolic  without  Bob 
Mosely.  The  hunters,  therefore,  were  always  ready 
to  give  him  a  share  of  their  game  in  exchange  for  his 


EXPERIENCES  OF  RALPH  RINGWOOD     237 

music,  and  Bob  was  always  ready  to  get  up  a  carousal 
whenever  there  was  a  party  returning  from  a  hunting 
expedition.  The  present  frolic  was  to  take  place  at 
Bob  Mosely's  own  house,  which  was  on  the  Pigeon- 
Roost  Fork  of  the  Muddy,  which  is  a  branch  of  Rough 
Creek,  which  is  a  branch  of  Green  River. 

"  Everybody  was  agog  for  the  revel  at  Bob  Mosely's ; 
and  as  all  the  fashion  of  the  neighborhood  was  to  be 
there,  I  thought  I  must  brush  up  for  the  occasion. 
My  leathern  hunting-dress,  which  was  the  only  one  I 
had,  was  somewhat  the  worse  for  wear,  it  is  true,  and 
considerably  japanned  with  blood  and  grease;  but  I 
was  up  to  hunting  expedients.  Getting  into  a  periogue, 
I  paddled  off  to  a  part  of  the  Green  River  where  there 
was  sand  and  clay,  that  might  serve  for  soap;  then, 
taking  off  my  dress,  I  scrubbed  and  scoured  it,  until 
I  thought  it  looked  very  well.  I  then  put  it  on  the 
end  of  a  stick,  and  hung  it  out  of  the  periogue  to  dry, 
while  I  stretched  myself  very  comfortably  on  the  green 
bank  of  the  river.  Unluckily  a  flaw  struck  the  periogue, 
and  tipped  over  the  stick ;  down  went  my  dress  to  the 
bottom  of  the  river,  and  I  never  saw  it  more.  Here 
was  I,  left  almost  in  a  state  of  nature.  I  managed  to 
make  a  kind  of  Robinson  Crusoe  garb  of  undressed 
skins,  with  the  hair  on,  which  enabled  me  to  get  home 
with  decency ;  but  my  dream  of  gayety  and  fashion 
was  at  an  end;  for  how  could  I  think  of  figuring  in 
high  life  at  the  Pigeon-Roost,  equipped  like  a  mere 
Orson  ? 

"  Old  Miller,  who  really  began  to  take  some  pride 
in  me,  was  confounded  when  he  understood  that  I  did 
not  intend  to  go  to  Bob  Mosely's ;  but  when  I  told  him 
my  misfortune,  and  that  I  had  no  dress,  'By  the 
powers,'  cried  he,  '  but  you  shall  go,  and  you  shall  be 
the  best  dressed  and  the  best  mounted  lad  there ! ' 

"  He  immediately  set  to  work  to  cut  out  and  make 
up  a  hunting-shirt,  of  dressed  deer-skin,  gayly  fringed 


238     EXPERIENCES  OF  RALPH  RINGWOOD 

at  the  shoulders,  and  leggins  of  the  same,  fringed  from 
hip  to  heel.  He  then  made  me  a  rakish  raccoon-cap, 
with  a  flaunting  tail  to  it,  mounted  me  on  his  best 
horse;  and  I  may  say,  without  vanity,  that  I  was  one 
of  the  smartest  fellows  that  figured  on  that  occasion 
at  the  Pigeon-Roost  Fork  of  the  Muddy. 

"  It  was  no  small  occasion,  either,  let  me  tell  you. 
Bob  Mosely's  house  was  a  tolerably  large  bark  shanty, 
with  a  clapboard  roof;  and  there  were  assembled  all 
the  young  hunters  and  pretty  girls  of  the  country  for 
many  a  mile  round.  The  young  men  were  in  their 
best  hunting-dresses,  but  not  one  could  compare  with 
mine;  and  my  raccoon-cap,  with  its  flowing  tail,  was 
the  admiration  of  everybody.  The  girls  were  mostly 
in  doe-skin  dresses;  for  there  was  no  spinning  and 
weaving  as  yet  in  the  woods,  nor  any  need  of  it.  I 
never  saw  girls  that  seemed  to  me  better  dressed,  and 
I  was  somewhat  of  a  judge,  having  seen  fashions  at 
Richmond.  We  had  a  hearty  dinner,  and  a  merry  one ; 
for  there  was  Jemmy  Kiel,  famous  for  raccoon- 
hunting,  and  Bob  Tarleton,  and  Wesley  Pigman,  and 
Joe  Taylor,  and  several  other  prime  fellows  for  a  frolic, 
that  made  all  ring  again,  and  laughed  that  you  might 
have  heard  them  a  mile. 

"  After  dinner  we  began  dancing,  and  were  hard  at 
it  when,  about  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  there 
was  a  new  arrival  —  the  two  daughters  of  old  Simon 
Schultz;  two  young  ladies  that  affected  fashion  and 
late  hours.  Their  arrival  had  nearly  put  an  end  to  all 
our  merriment.  I  must  go  a  little  round  about  in  my 
story  to  explain  to  you  how  that  happened. 

"  As  old  Schultz,  the  father,  was  one  day  looking 
in  the  canebrakes  for  his  cattle,  he  came  upon  the  track 
of  horses.  He  knew  they  were  none  of  his,  and  that 
none  of  his  neighbors  had  horses  about  that  place. 
They  must  be  stray  horses,  or  must  belong  to  some 
traveller  who  had  lost  his  way,  as  the  track  led  no- 


239 

where.  He  accordingly  followed  it  up,  until  he  came 
to  an  unlucky  peddler,  with  two  or  three  packhorses, 
who  had  been  bewildered  among  the  cattle-tracks,  and 
had  wandered  for  two  or  three  days  among  woods  and 
canebrakes,  until  he  was  almost  famished. 

"  Old  Schultz  brought  him  to  his  house,  fed  him 
on  venison,  bear's  meat,  and  hominy,  and  at  the  end 
of  a  week  put  him  in  prime  condition.  The  peddler 
could  not  sufficiently  express  his  thankfulness,  and 
when  about  to  depart,  inquired  what  he  had  to  pay. 
Old  Schultz  stepped  back  with  surprise.  '  Stranger,' 
said  he,  '  you  have  been  welcome  under  my  roof.  I  Ve 
given  you  nothing  but  wild  meat  and  hominy,  because 
I  had  no  better,  but  have  been  glad  of  your  company. 
You  are  welcome  to  stay  as  long  as  you  please;  but, 
by  Zounds!  if  any  one  offers  to  pay  Simon  Schultz 
for  food,  he  affronts  him ! '  So  saying,  he  walked  out 
in  a  huff. 

"  The  peddler  admired  the  hospitality  of  his  host, 
but  could  not  reconcile  it  to  his  conscience  to  go  away 
without  making  some  recompense.  There  were  honest 
Simon's  two  daughters,  two  strapping,  red-haired  girls. 
He  opened  his  packs  and  displayed  riches  before  them 
of  which  they  had  no  conception;  for  in  those  days 
there  were  no  country  stores  in  those  parts,  with  their 
artificial  finery  and  trinketry;  and  this  was  the  first 
peddler  that  had  wandered  into  that  part  of  the  wil 
derness.  The  girls  were  for  a  time  completely  dazzled, 
and  knew  not  what  to  choose;  but  what  caught  their 
eyes  most  were  two  looking-glasses,  about  the  size  of 
a  dollar,  set  in  gilt  tin.  They  had  never  seen  the  like 
before,  having  used  no  other  mirror  than  a  pail  of 
water.  The  peddler  presented  them  these  jewels  with 
out  the  least  hesitation;  nay,  he  gallantly  hung  them 
round  their  necks  by  red  ribbons,  almost  as  fine  as  the 
glasses  themselves.  This  done,  he  took  his  departure, 
leaving  them  as  much  astonished  as  two  princesses  in 


240     EXPERIENCES  OF  RALPH   RINGWOOD 

a  fairy  tale,  that  have  received  a  magic  gift  from  an 
enchanter. 

"  It  was  with  these  looking-glasses  hung  round  their 
necks  as  lockets,  by  red  ribbons,  that  old  Schultz's 
daughters  made  their  appearance  at  three  o'clock  in 
the  afternoon,  at  the  frolic  at  Bob  Mosely's,  on  the 
Pigeon-Roost  Fork  of  the  Muddy. 

"  By  the  powers,  but  it  was  an  event !  Such  a 
thing  had  never  before  been  seen  in  Kentucky.  Bob 
Tarleton,  a  strapping  fellow,  with  a  head  like  a  chest 
nut-burr,  and  a  look  like  a  boar  in  an  apple-orchard, 
stepped  up,  caught  hold  of  the  looking-glass  of  one 
of  the  girls,  and  gazing  at  it  for  a  moment,  cried  out : 
'  Joe  Taylor,  come  here !  come  here !  I  '11  be  darn'd 
if  Patty  Schultz  ain't  got  a  locket  that  you  can  see  your 
face  in,  as  clear  as  in  a  spring  of  water ! ' 

"In  a  twinkling  all  the  young  hunters  gathered 
round  old  Schultz's  daughters.  I,  who  knew  what 
looking-glasses  were,  did  not  budge.  Some  of  the 
girls  who  sat  near  me  were  excessively  mortified  at 
rinding  themselves  thus  deserted.  I  heard  Peggy  Pugh 
say  to  Sally  Pigman,  '  Goodness  knows,  it 's  well 
Schultz's  daughters  is  got  them  things  round  their 
necks,  for  it 's  the  first  time  the  young  men  crowded 
round  them ! ' 

"  I  saw  immediately  the  danger  of  the  case.  We 
were  a  small  community,  and  could  not  afford  to  be 
split  up  by  feuds.  So  I  stepped  up  to  the  girls,  and 
whispered  to  them :  '  Polly,'  said  I,  '  those  lockets  are 
powerful  fine,  and  become  you  amazingly,  but  you 
don't  consider  that  the  country  is  not  advanced  enough 
in  these  parts  for  such  things.  You  and  I  understand 
these  matters,  but  these  people  don't.  Fine  things  like 
these  may  do  very  well  in  the  old  settlements,  but  they 
won't  answer  at  the  Pigeon-Roost  Fork  of  the  Muddy. 
You  had  better  lay  them  aside  for  the  present,  or  we 
shall  have  no  peace.' 


EXPERIENCES  OF  RALPH   RINGWOOD     241 

"  Polly  and  her  sister  luckily  saw  their  error ;  they 
took  off  the  lockets,  laid  them  aside,  and  harmony  was 
restored;  otherwise,  I  verily  believe  there  would  have 
been  an  end  of  our  community.  Indeed,  notwithstand 
ing  the  great  sacrifice  they  made  on  this  occasion,  I 
do  not  think  old  Schultz's  daughters  were  ever  much 
liked  afterwards  among  the  young  women. 

"  This  was  the  first  time  that  looking-glasses  were 
ever  seen  in  the  Green  River  part  of  Kentucky. 

"  I  had  now  lived  some  time  with  old  Miller,  and 
had  become  a  tolerably  expert  hunter.  Game,  how 
ever,  began  to  grow  scarce.  The  buffalo  had  gathered 
together,  as  if  by  universal  understanding,  and  had 
crossed  the  Mississippi,  never  to  return.  Strangers 
kept  pouring  into  the  country,  clearing  away  the  for 
ests,  and  building  in  all  directions.  The  hunters  began 
to  grow  restive.  Jemmy  Kiel,  the  same  of  whom  I 
have  already  spoken  for  his  skill  in  raccoon  catching, 
came  to  me  one  day.  '  I  can't  stand  this  any  longer,' 
said  he,  '  we  're  getting  too  thick  here.  Simon  Schultz 
crowds  me  so  that  I  have  no  comfort  of  my  life.' 

"  '  Why,  how  you  talk ! '  said  I ;  '  Simon  Schultz 
lives  twelve  miles  off.' 

"  '  No  matter ;  his  cattle  run  with  mine,  and  I  've 
no  idea  of  living  where  another  man's  cattle  can  run 
with  mine.  That 's  too  close  neighborhood ;  I  want 
elbow-room.  This  country,  too,  is  growing  too  poor 
to  live  in ;  there  's  no  game ;  so  two  or  three  of  us  have 
made  up  our  minds  to  follow  the  buffalo  to  the  Mis 
souri,  and  we  should  like  to  have  you  of  the  party.' 
Other  hunters  of  my  acquaintance  talked  in  the  same 
manner.  This  set  me  thinking ;  but  the  more  I  thought, 
the  more  I  was  perplexed.  I  had  no  one  to  advise 
with;  old  Miller  and  his  associates  knew  of  but  one 
mode  of  life,  and  I  had  no  experience  in  any  other, 
but  I  had  a  wider  scope  of  thought.  When  out  hunt 
ing  alone,  I  used  to  forget  the  sport,  and  sit  for  hours 

16 


242     EXPERIENCES  OF  RALPH  RINGWOOD 

together  on  the  trunk  of  a  tree,  with  rifle  in  hand, 
buried  in  thought,  and  debating  with  myself :  '  Shall 
I  go  with  Jemmy  Kiel  and  his  company,  or  shall  I 
remain  here?  If  I  remain  here,  there  will  soon  be 
nothing  left  to  hunt.  But  am  I  to  be  a  hunter  all  my 
life?  Have  not  I  something  more  in  me  than  to  be 
carrying  a  rifle  on  my  shoulder,  day  after  day,  and 
dodging  about  after  bears,  and  deer,  and  other  brute 
beasts  ? '  My  vanity  told  me  I  had ;  and  I  called  to 
mind  my  boyish  boast  to  my  sister,  that  I  would  never 
return  home  until  I  returned  a  member  of  Congress 
from  Kentucky ;  but  was  this  the  way  to  fit  myself  for 
such  a  station  ? 

"  Various  plans  passed  through  my  mind,  but  they 
were  abandoned  almost  as  soon  as  formed.  At  length 
I  determined  on  becoming  a  lawyer.  True  it  is,  I 
knew  almost  nothing.  I  had  left  school  before  I  had 
learnt  beyond  the  '  Rule  of  Three.'  '  Never  mind/ 
said  I  to  myself,  resolutely,  '  I  am  a  terrible  fellow  for 
hanging  on  to  anything  when  I  've  once  made  up  my 
mind ;  and  if  a  man  has  but  ordinary  capacity,  and  will 
set  to  work  with  heart  and  soul,  and  stick  to  it,  he  can 
do  almost  anything.'  With  this  maxim,  which  has 
been  pretty  much  my  main  stay  throughout  life,  I 
fortified  myself  in  my  determination  to  attempt  the 
law.  But  how  was  I  to  set  about  it?  I  must  quit  this 
forest  life,  and  go  to  one  or  other  of  the  towns,  where 
I  might  be  able  to  study  and  to  attend  the  courts.  This, 
too,  required  funds.  I  examined  into  the  state  of  my 
finances.  The  purse  given  me  by  my  father  had  re 
mained  untouched,  in  the  bottom  of  an  old  chest  up 
in  the  loft,  for  money  was  scarcely  needed  in  these 
parts.  I  had  bargained  away  the  skins  acquired  in 
hunting,  for  a  horse  and  various  other  matters,  on 
which,  in  case  of  need,  I  could  raise  funds.  I  there 
fore  thought  I  could  make  shift  to  maintain  myself 
until  I  was  fitted  for  the  bar. 


EXPERIENCES  OF  RALPH  RINGWOOD     243 

"  I  informed  my  worthy  host  and  patron,  old  Miller, 
of  my  plan.  He  shook  his  head  at  my  turning  my 
back  upon  the  woods  when  I  was  in  a  fair  way  of 
making  a  first-rate  hunter;  but  he  made  no  effort  to 
dissuade  me.  I  accordingly  set  off  in  September,  on 
horseback,  intending  to  visit  Lexington,  Frankfort,  and 
other  of  the  principal  towns,  in  search  of  a  favorable 
place  to  prosecute  my  studies.  My  choice  was  made 
sooner  than  I  expected.  I  had  put  up  one  night  at 
Bardstown,  and  found,  on  inquiry,  that  I  could  get 
comfortable  board  and  accommodation  in  a  private 
family  for  a  dollar  and  a  half  a  week.  I  liked  the 
place,  and  resolved  to  look  no  farther.  So  the  next 
morning  I  prepared  to  turn  my  face  homeward,  and 
take  my  final  leave  of  forest  life. 

"  I  had  taken  my  breakfast,  and  was  waiting  for 
my  horse,  when,  in  pacing  up  and  down  the  piazza,  I 
saw  a  young  girl  seated  near  a  window,  evidently  a 
visitor.  She  was  very  pretty,  with  auburn  hair  and 
blue  eyes,  and  was  dressed  in  white.  I  had  seen  noth 
ing  of  the  kind  since  I  had  left  Richmond,  and  at  that 
time  I  was  too  much  of  a  boy  to  be  much  struck  by 
female  charms.  She  was  so  delicate  and  dainty-look 
ing,  so  different  from  the  hale,  buxom,  brown  girls  of 
the  woods ;  and  then  her  white  dress !  —  it  was  per 
fectly  dazzling!  Never  was  poor  youth  more  taken 
by  surprise  and  suddenly  bewitched.  My  heart  yearned 
to  know  her;  but  how  was  I  to  accost  her?  I  had 
grown  wild  in  the  woods,  and  had  none  of  the  habi 
tudes  of  polite  life.  Had  she  been  like  Peggy  Pugh, 
or  Sally  Pigman,  or  any  other  of  my  leathern-dressed 
belles  of  the  Pigeon-Roost,  I  should  have  approached 
her  without  dread;  nay,  had  she  been  as  fair  as 
Schultz's  daughters,  with  their  looking-glass  lockets, 
I  should  not  have  hesitated;  but  that  white  dress  and 
those  auburn  ringlets,  and  blue  eyes,  and  delicate  looks, 
quite  daunted  while  they  fascinated  me.  I  don't  know 


244     EXPERIENCES  OF  RALPH  RINGWOOD 

what  put  it  into  my  head,  but  I  thought,  all  at  once, 
that  I  would  kiss  her!  It  would  take  a  long  acquaint 
ance  to  arrive  at  such  a  boon,  but  I  might  seize  upon 
it  by  sheer  robbery.  Nobody  knew  me  here.  I  would 
just  step  in,  snatch  a  kiss,  mount  my  horse,  and  ride 
off.  She  would  not  be  the  worse  for  it ;  and  that  kiss 
—  oh !  I  should  die  if  I  did  not  get  it ! 

"  I  gave  no  time  for  the  thought  to  cool,  but  en 
tered  the  house  and  stepped  lightly  into  the  room.  She 
was  seated  with  her  back  to  the  door,  looking  out  at 
the  window,  and  did  not  hear  my  approach.  I  tapped 
her  chair,  and  as  she  turned  and  looked  up,  I  snatched 
as  sweet  a  kiss  as  ever  was  stolen,  and  vanished  in  a 
twinkling.  The  next  moment  I  was  on  horseback, 
galloping  homeward,  my  very  ears  tingling  at  what 
I  had  done. 

"  On  my  return  home  I  sold  my  horse  and  turned 
everything  to  cash,  and  found,  with  the  remains  of 
the  paternal  purse,  that  I  had  nearly  four  hundred 
dollars,  —  a  little  capital  which  I  resolved  to  manage 
with  the  strictest  economy. 

"  It  was  hard  parting  with  old  Miller,  who  had  been 
like  a  father  to  me;  it  cost  me,  too,  something  of  a 
struggle  to  give  up  the  free,  independent  wild-wood 
life  I  had  hitherto  led;  but  I  had  marked  out  my 
course,  and  have  never  been  one  to  flinch  or  turn  back. 

"  I  footed  it  sturdily  to  Bardstown,  took  possession 
of  the  quarters  for  which  I  had  bargained,  shut  myself 
up,  and  set  to  work  with  might  and  main  to  study. 
But  what  a  task  I  had  before  me!  I  had  everything 
to  learn;  not  merely  law,  but  all  the  elementary 
branches  of  knowledge.  I  read  and  read  for  sixteen 
hours  out  of  the  four-and-twenty,  but  the  more  I  read 
the  more  I  became  aware  of  my  own  ignorance,  and 
shed  bitter  tears  over  my  deficiency.  It  seemed  as  if 
the  wilderness  of  knowledge  expanded  and  grew  more 
perplexed  as  I  advanced.  Every  height  gained  only 


EXPERIENCES  OF  RALPH  RINGWOOD     245 

revealed  a  wider  region  to  be  traversed,  and  nearly 
filled  me  with  despair.  I  grew  moody,  silent,  and  un 
social,  but  studied  on  doggedly  and  incessantly.  The 
only  person  with  whom  I  held  any  conversation,  was 
the  worthy  man  in  whose  house  I  was  quartered.  He 
was  honest  and  well-meaning,  but  perfectly  ignorant, 
and  I  believe  would  have  liked  me  much  better  if  I 
had  not  been  so  much  addicted  to  reading.  He  con 
sidered  all  books  filled  with  lies  and  impositions,  and 
seldom  could  look  into  one  without  finding  something 
to  rouse  his  spleen.  Nothing  put  him  into  a  greater 
passion  than  the  assertion  that  the  world  turned  on  its 
own  axis  every  four-and-twenty  hours.  He  swore  it 
was  an  outrage  upon  common  sense.  '  Why,  if  it  did,' 
said  he,  '  there  would  not  be  a  drop  of  water  in  the 
well  by  morning,  and  all  the  milk  and  cream  in  the 
dairy  would  be  turned  topsy-turvy ! '  And  then  to  talk 
of  the  earth  going  round  the  sun !  '  How  do  they 
know  it  ?  I  've*  seen  the  sun  rise  every  morning  and 
set  every  evening  for  more  than  thirty  years.  They 
must  not  talk  to  me  about  the  earth's  going  round  the 
sun!' 

"  At  another  time  he  was  in  a  perfect  fret  at  being 
told  the  distance  between  the  sun  and  moon.  '  How 
can  any  one  tell  the  distance  ?  '  cried  he.  '  Who  sur 
veyed  it?  who  carried  the  chain?  By  Jupiter!  they 
only  talk  this  way  before  me  to  annoy  me.  But  then 
there  's  some  people  of  sense  who  give  in  to  this  cursed 
humbug!  There's  Judge  Broadnax,  now,  one  of  the 
best  lawyers  we  have ;  is  n't  it  surprising  he  should 
believe  in  such  stuff?  Why,  sir,  the  other  day  I  heard 
him  talk  of  the  distance  from  a  star  he  called  Mars 
to  the  sun !  He  must  have  got  it  out  of  one  or  other 
of  those  confounded  books  he  's  so  fond  of  reading ; 
a  book  some  impudent  fellow  has  written,  who  knew 
nobody  could  swear  the  distance  was  more  or  less.' 

"  For  my  own  part,  feeling  my  own  deficiency  in 


246     EXPERIENCES  OF  RALPH  RINGWOOD 

scientific  lore,  I  never  ventured  to  unsettle  his  convic 
tion  that  the  sun  made  his  daily  circuit  round  the  earth ; 
and  for  aught  I  said  to  the  contrary,  he  lived  and  died 
in  that  belief. 

"  I  had  been  about  a  year  at  Bardstown,  living  thus 
studiously  and  reclusely,  when,  as  I  was  one  day  walk 
ing  the  street,  I  met  two  young  girls,  in  one  of  whom 
I  immediately  recalled  the  little  beauty  whom  I  had 
kissed  so  impudently.  She  blushed  up  to  the  eyes,  and 
so  did  I;  but  we  both  passed  on  without  farther  sign 
of  recognition.  This  second  glimpse  of  her,  however, 
caused  an  odd  fluttering  about  my  heart.  I  could  not 
get  her  out  of  my  thoughts  for  days.  She  quite  inter 
fered  with  my  studies.  I  tried  to  think  of  her  as  a 
mere  child,  but  it  would  not  do;  she  had  improved  in 
beauty,  and  was  tending  toward  womanhood ;  and  then 
I  myself  was  but  little  better  than  a  stripling.  How 
ever,  I  did  not  attempt  to  seek  after  her,  or  even  to  find 
out  who  she  was,  but  returned  doggedly  to  my  books. 
By  degrees  she  faded  from  my  thoughts,  or  if  she  did 
cross  them  occasionally,  it  was  only  to  increase  my 
despondency,  for  I  feared  that  with  all  my  exertions, 
I  should  never  be  able  to  fit  myself  for  the  bar,  or 
enable  myself  to  support  a  wife. 

"  One  cold  stormy  evening  I  was  seated,  in  dumpish 
mood,  in  the  bar-room  of  the  inn,  looking  into  the  fire 
and  turning  over  uncomfortable  thoughts,  when  I  was 
accosted  by  some  one  who  had  entered  the  room  with 
out  my  perceiving  it.  I  looked  up,  and  saw  before  me 
a  tall  and,  as  I  thought,  pompous-looking  man,  arrayed 
in  small-clothes  and  knee-buckles,  with  powdered  head, 
and  shoes  nicely  blacked  and  polished ;  a  style  of  dress 
unparalleled  in  those  days  in  that  rough  country.  I 
took  a  pique  against  him  from  the  very  portliness  of  his 
appearance  and  stateliness  of  his  manner,  and  bristled 
up  as  he  accosted  me.  He  demanded  if  my  name  was 
not  Ringwood. 


EXPERIENCES  OF  RALPH  RINGWOOD     247 

"  I  was  startled,  for  I  supposed  myself  perfectly 
incog.;  but  I  answered  in  the  affirmative. 

"'Your  family,  I  believe,  lives  in  Richmond.' 

"  My  gorge  began  to  rise.  '  Yes,  sir/  replied  I, 
sulkily,  '  my  family  does  live  in  Richmond.' 

"  '  And  what,  may  I  ask,  has  brought  you  into  this 
part  of  the  country  ?  ' 

"  '  Zounds,  sir ! '  cried  I,  starting  on  my  feet,  '  what 
business  is  it  of  yours?  How  dare  you  to  question  me 
in  this  manner  ?  ' 

"  The  entrance  of  some  persons  prevented  a  reply ; 
but  I  walked  up  and  down  the  bar-room,  fuming  with 
conscious  independence  and  insulted  dignity,  while  the 
pompous  looking  personage,  who  had  thus  trespassed 
upon  my  spleen,  retired  without  proffering  another 
word. 

"  The  next  day,  while  seated  in  my  room,  some  one 
tapped  at  the  door,  and,  on  being  bid  to  enter,  the 
stranger  in  the  powdered  head,  small-clothes,  and  shin 
ing  shoes  and  buckles,  walked  in  with  ceremonious 
courtesy. 

"  My  boyish  pride  was  again  in  arms,  but  he  subdued 
me.  He  was  formal,  but  kind  and  friendly.  He  knew 
my  family  and  understood  my  situation,  and  the  dog 
ged  struggle  I  was  making.  A  little  conversation, 
when  my  jealous  pride  was  once  put  to  rest,  drew 
everything  from  me.  He  was  a  lawyer  of  experience 
and  of  extensive  practice,  and  offered  at  once  to  take 
me  with  him  and  direct  my  studies.  The  offer  was  too 
advantageous  and  gratifying  not  to  be  immediately 
accepted.  From  that  time  I  began  to  look  up.  I  was 
put  into  a  proper  track,  and  was  enabled  to  study  to 
a  proper  purpose.  I  made  acquaintance,  too,  with 
some  of  the  young  men  of  the  place  who  were  in  the 
same  pursuit,  and  was  encouraged  at  rinding  that  I 
could  '  hold  my  own  '  in  argument  with  them.  We 
instituted  a  debating-club,  in  which  I  soon  became 


248     EXPERIENCES  OF  RALPH  RINGWOOD 

prominent  and  popular.  Men  of  talents,  engaged  in 
other  pursuits,  joined  it,  and  this  diversified  our  sub 
jects  and  put  me  on  various  tracks  of  inquiry.  Ladies, 
too,  attended  some  of  our  discussions,  and  this  gave 
them  a  polite  tone  and  had  an  influence  on  the  manners 
of  the  debaters.  My  legal  patron  also  may  have  had  a 
favorable  effect  in  correcting  any  roughness  contracted 
in  my  hunter's  life.  He  was  calculated  to  bend  me  in 
an  opposite  direction,  for  he  was  of  the  old  school ; 
quoted  '  Chesterfield '  on  all  occasions,  and  talked  of 
Sir  Charles  Grandison,  who  was  his  beau  ideal.  It  was 
Sir  Charles  Grandison,  however,  Kentuckyized. 

"  I  had  always  been  fond  of  female  society.  My 
experience,  however,  had  hitherto  been  among  the 
rough  daughters  of  the  backwoodsmen,  and  I  felt  an 
awe  of  young  ladies  in  '  store  clothes,'  delicately 
brought  up.  Two  or  three  of  the  married  ladies  of 
Bardstown,  who  had  heard  me  at  the  debating-club, 
determined  that  I  was  a  genius,  and  undertook  to  bring 
me  out.  I  believe  I  really  improved  under  their  hands, 
became  quiet  where  I  had  been  shy  or  sulky,  and  easy 
where  I  had  been  impudent. 

I  called  to  take  tea  one  evening  with  one  of  these 
ladies,  when  to  my  surprise,  and  somewhat  to  my  con 
fusion,  I  found  with  her  the  identical  blue-eyed  little 
beauty  whom  I  had  so  audaciously  kissed.  I  was  for 
mally  introduced  to  her,  but  neither  of  us  betrayed  any 
sign  of  previous  acquaintance,  except  by  blushing  to 
the  eyes.  While  tea  was  getting  ready,  the  lady  of  the 
house  went  out  of  the  room  to  give  some  directions, 
and  left  us  alone. 

"  Heavens  and  earth,  what  a  situation !  I  would 
have  given  all  the  pittance  I  was  worth  to  have  been  in 
the  deepest  dell  of  the  forest.  I  felt  the  necessity  of 
saying  something  in  excuse  of  my  former  rudeness, 
but  I  could  not  conjure  up  an  idea,  nor  utter  a  word. 
Every  moment  matters  were  growing  worse.  I  felt 


EXPERIENCES  OF  RALPH  RINGWOOD     249 

at  one  time  tempted  to  do  as  I  had  done  when  I  robbed 
her  of  the  kiss,  —  bolt  from  the  room,  and  take  to 
flight ;  but  I  was  chained  to  the  spot,  for  I  really  longed 
to  gain  her  good  will. 

"  At  length  I  plucked  up  courage,  on  seeing  that  she 
was  equally  confused  with  myself,  and  walking  desper 
ately  up  to  her,  I  exclaimed : 

"  '  I  have  been  trying  to  muster  up  something  to 
say  to  you,  but  I  cannot.  I  feel  that  I  am  in  a  horrible 
scrape.  Do  have  pity  on  me,  and  help  me  out  of  it ! ' 

"  A  smile  dimpled  about  her  mouth,  and  played 
among  the  blushes  of  her  cheek.  She  looked  up  with 
a  shy  but  arch  glance  of  the  eye,  that  expressed  a 
volume  of  comic  recollection;  we  both  broke  into  a 
laugh,  and  from  that  moment  all  went  on  well. 

"  A  few  evenings  afterward  I  met  her  at  a  dance, 
and  prosecuted  the  acquaintance.  I  soon  became  deeply 
attached  to  her,  paid  my  court  regularly,  and  before  I 
was  nineteen  years  of  age  had  engaged  myself  to  marry 
her.  I  spoke  to  her  mother,  a  widow  lady,  to  ask  her 
consent.  She  seemed  to  demur ;  upon  which,  with  my 
customary  haste,  I  told  her  there  would  be  no  use  in 
opposing  the  match,  for  if  her  daughter  chose  to  have 
me,  I  would  take  her,  in  defiance  of  her  family  and 
the  whole  world. 

"  She  laughed,  and  told  me  I  need  not  give  myself 
any  uneasiness;  there  would  be  no  unreasonable  op 
position.  She  knew  my  family,  and  all  about  me. 
The  only  obstacle  was,  that  I  had  no  means  of  support 
ing  a  wife,  and  she  had  nothing  to  give  with  her 
daughter. 

"  No  matter ;  at  that  moment  everything  was  bright 
before  me.  I  was  in  one  of  my  sanguine  moods.  I 
feared  nothing,  doubted  nothing.  So  it  was  agreed 
that  I  should  prosecute  my  studies,  obtain  a  license, 
and  as  soon  as  I  should  be  fairly  launched  in  business, 
we  would  be  married. 


"  I  now  prosecuted  my  studies  with  redoubled  ardor, 
and  was  up  to  my  ears  in  law,  when  I  received  a  letter 
from  my  father,  who  had  heard  of  me  and  my  where 
abouts.  He  applauded  the  course  I  had  taken,  but  ad 
vised  me  to  lay  a  foundation  of  general  knowledge, 
and  offered  to  defray  my  expenses  if  I  would  go  to 
college.  I  felt  the  want  of  a  general  education,  and 
was  staggered  with  this  offer.  It  militated  somewhat 
against  the  self-dependent  course  I  had  so  proudly,  or 
rather  conceitedly,  marked  out  for  myself,  but  it  would 
enable  me  to  enter  more  advantageously  upon  my  legal 
career.  I  talked  over  the  matter  with  the  lovely  girl 
to  whom  I  was  engaged.  She  sided  in  opinion  with  my 
father,  and  talked  so  disinterestedly,  yet  tenderly,  that 
if  possible,  I  loved  her  more  than  ever.  I  reluctantly, 
therefore,  agreed  to  go  to  college  for  a  couple  of  years, 
though  it  must  necessarily  postpone  our  union. 

"  Scarcely  had  I  formed  this  resolution,  when  her 
mother  was  taken  ill,  and  died,  leaving  her  without  a 
protector.  This  again  altered  all  my  plans.  I  felt  as 
if  I  could  protect  her.  I  gave  up  all  idea  of  collegiate 
studies;  persuaded  myself  that  by  dint  of  industry  and 
application  I  might  overcome  the  deficiencies  of  edu 
cation,  and  resolved  to  take  out  a  license  as  soon  as 
possible. 

"  That  very  autumn  I  was  admitted  to  the  bar,  and 
within  a  month  afterward  was  married.  We  were  a 
young  couple,  —  she  not  much  above  sixteen,  I  not 
quite  twenty,  —  and  both  almost  without  a  dollar  in 
the  world.  The  establishment  which  we  set  up  was 
suited  to  our  circumstances:  a  log-house,  with  two 
small  rooms;  a  bed,  a  table,  a  half-dozen  chairs,  a 
half-dozen  knives  and  forks,  a  half-dozen  spoons; 
everything  by  half-dozens;  a  little  Delft  ware;  every 
thing  in  a  small  way:  we  were  so  poor,  but  then  so 
happy ! 

"  We  had  not  been  married  many  days  when  court 


EXPERIENCES  OF  RALPH  RINGWOOD     251 

was  held  at  a  county  town,  about  twenty-five  miles 
distant.  It  was  necessary  for  me  to  go  there,  and  put 
myself  in  the  way  of  business;  but  how  was  I  to  go? 
I  had  expended  all  my  means  on  our  establishment; 
and  then,  it  was  hard  parting  with  my  wife  so  soon 
after  marriage.  However,  go  I  must.  Money  must 
be  made,  or  we  should  soon  have  the  wolf  at  the  door. 
I  accordingly  borrowed  a  horse,  and  borrowed  a  little 
cash,  and  rode  off  from  my  door,  leaving  my  wife 
standing  at  it,  and  waving  her  hand  after  me.  Her 
last  look,  so  sweet  and  beaming,  went  to  my  heart.  I 
felt  as  if  I  could  go  through  fire  and  water  for  her. 

"  I  arrived  at  the  county  town  on  a  cool  October 
evening.  The  inn  was  crowded,  for  the  court  was  to 
commence  on  the  following  day.  I  knew  no  one,  and 
wondered  how  I,  a  stranger  and  a  mere  youngster,  was 
to  make  my  way  in  such  a  crowd,  and  to  get  business. 
The  public  room  was  thronged  with  the  idlers  of  the 
country,  who  gather  together  on  such  occasions.  There 
was  some  drinking  going  forward,  with  much  noise, 
and  a  little  altercation.  Just  as  I  entered  the  room, 
I  saw  a  rough  bully  of  a  fellow,  who  was  partly  intoxi 
cated,  strike  an  old  man.  He  came  swaggering  by  me, 
and  elbowed  me  as  he  passed.  I  immediately  knocked 
him  down,  and  kicked  him  into  the  street.  I  needed 
no  better  introduction.  In  a  moment  I  had  a  dozen 
rough  shakes  of  the  hand  and  invitations  to  drink, 
and  found  myself  quite  a  personage  in  this  rough 
assembly. 

"  The  next  morning  the  court  opened.  I  took  my 
seat  among  the  lawyers,  but  felt  as  a  mere  spectator, 
not  having  a  suit  in  progress  or  prospect,  nor  having 
any  idea  where  business  was  to  come  from.  In  the 
course  of  the  morning,  a  man  was  put  at  the  bar 
charged  with  passing  counterfeit  money,  and  was  asked 
if  he  was  ready  for  trial.  He  answered  in  the  nega 
tive.  He  had  been  confined  in  a  place  where  there 


252     EXPERIENCES  OF  RALPH  RINGWOOD 

were  no  lawyers,  and  had  not  had  an  opportunity  of 
consulting  any.  He  was  told  to  choose  counsel  from 
the  lawyers  present,  and  to  be  ready  for  trial  on  the 
following  day.  He  looked  round  the  court,  and  se 
lected  me.  I  was  thunderstruck.  I  could  not  tell  why 
he  should  make  such  a  choice.  I,  a  beardless  youngster, 
unpractised  at  the  bar,  perfectly  unknown.  I  felt  diffi 
dent  yet  delighted,  and  could  have  hugged  the  rascal. 

"  Before  leaving  the  court,  he  gave  me  one  hundred 
dollars  in  a  bag,  as  a  retaining  fee.  I  could  scarcely 
believe  my  senses ;  it  seemed  like  a  dream.  The  heavi 
ness  of  the  fee  spoke  but  lightly  in  favor  of  his  inno 
cence,  but  that  was  no  affair  of  mine.  I  was  to  be 
advocate,  not  judge,  nor  jury.  I  followed  him  to  jail, 
and  learned  from  him  all  the  particulars  of  his  case : 
thence  I  went  to  the  clerk's  office,  and  took  minutes  of 
the  indictment.  I  then  examined  the  law  on  the  sub 
ject,  and  prepared  my  brief  in  my  room.  All  this  oc 
cupied  me  until  midnight,  when  I  went  to  bed,  and 
tried  to  sleep.  It  was  all  in  vain.  Never  in  my  life 
was  I  more  wide  awake.  A  host  of  thoughts  and 
fancies  kept  rushing  through  my  mind;  the  shower 
of  gold  that  had  so  unexpectedly  fallen  into  my  lap; 
the  idea  of  my  poor  little  wife  at  home,  that  I  was  to 
astonish  with  my  good  fortune!  But  then  the  awful 
responsibility  I  had  undertaken !  —  to  speak  for  the 
first  time  in  a  strange  court;  the  expectations  the  cul 
prit  had  evidently  formed  of  my  talents ;  all  these,  and 
a  crowd  of  similar  notions,  kept  whirling  through  my 
mind.  I  tossed  about  all  night,  fearing  the  morning 
would  find  me  exhausted  and  incompetent ;  in  a  word, 
the  day  dawned  on  me,  a  miserable  fellow ! 

"  I  got  up  feverish  and  nervous.  I  walked  out  be 
fore  breakfast,  striving  to  collect  my  thoughts,  and 
tranquillize  my  feelings.  It  was  a  bright  morning; 
the  air  was  pure  and  frosty.  I  bathed  my  forehead 
and  my  hands  in  a  beautiful  running  stream;  but  I 


EXPERIENCES  OF  RALPH   RINGWOOD     253 

could  not  allay  the  fever  heat  that  raged  within.  I 
returned  to  breakfast,  but  could  not  eat.  A  single  cup 
of  coffee  formed  my  repast.  It  was  time  to  go  to 
court,  and  I  went  there  with  a  throbbing  heart.  I 
believe  if  it  had  not  been  for  the  thoughts  of  my  little 
wife,  in  her  lonely  log-house,  I  should  have  given  back 
to  the  man  his  hundred  dollars,  and  relinquished  the 
cause.  I  took  my  seat,  looking,  I  am  convinced,  more 
like  a  culprit  than  the  rogue  I  was  to  defend. 

"  When  the  time  came  for  me  to  speak,  my  heart 
died  within  me.  I  rose  embarrassed  and  dismayed,  and 
stammered  in  opening  my  cause.  I  went  on  from  bad 
to  worse,  and  felt  as  if  I  was  going  down  hill.  Just 
then  the  public  prosecutor,  a  man  of  talents,  but  some 
what  rough  in  his  practice,  made  a  sarcastic  remark 
on  something  I  had  said.  It  was  like  an  electric  spark, 
and  ran  tingling  through  every  vein  in  my  body.  In 
an  instant  my  diffidence  was  gone.  My  whole  spirit 
was  in  arms.  I  answered  with  promptness  and  bitter 
ness,  for  I  felt  the  cruelty  of  such  an  attack  upon  a 
novice  in  my  situation.  The  public  prosecutor  made 
a  kind  of  apology ;  this,  from  a  man  of  his  redoubted 
powers,  was  a  vast  concession.  I  renewed  my  argu 
ment  with  a  fearless  glow;  carried  the  case  through 
triumphantly,  and  the  man  was  acquitted. 

"  This  was  the  making  of  me.  Everybody  was  curi 
ous  to  know  who  this  new  lawyer  was,  that  had  thus 
suddenly  risen  among  them,  and  bearded  the  attorney- 
general  at  the  very  outset.  The  story  of  my  debut  at 
the  inn,  on  the  preceding  evening,  when  I  had  knocked 
down  a  bully,  and  kicked  him  out  of  doors,  for  strik 
ing  an  old  man,  was  circulated,  with  favorable  exag 
gerations.  Even  my  very  beardless  chin  and  juvenile 
countenance  were  in  my  favor,  for  people  gave  me 
far  more  credit  than  I  really  deserved.  The  chance 
business  which  occurs  in  our  country  courts  came 
thronging  upon  me.  I  was  repeatedly  employed  in 


254     EXPERIENCES  OF  RALPH  RINGWOOD 

other  causes;  and  by  Saturday  night,  when  the  court 
closed,  and  I  had  paid  my  bill  at  the  inn,  I  found  my 
self  with  a  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  in  silver,  three 
hundred  dollars  in  notes,  and  a  horse  that  I  afterward 
sold  for  two  hundred  dollars  more. 

"  Never  did  miser  gloat  on  his  money  with  more 
delight.  I  locked  the  door  of  my  room,  piled  the 
money  in  a  heap  upon  the  table,  walked  round  it,  sat 
with  my  elbows  on  the  table  and  my  chin  upon  my 
hands,  and  gazed  upon  it.  Was  I  thinking  of  the 
money?  No!  I  was  thinking  of  my  little  wife  at 
home.  Another  sleepless  night  ensued;  but  what  a 
night  of  golden  fancies  and  splendid  air-castles!  As 
soon  as  morning  dawned,  I  was  up,  mounted  the  bor 
rowed  horse  with  which  I  had  come  to  court,  and  led 
the  other,  which  I  had  received  as  a  fee.  All  the  way 
I  was  delighting  myself  with  the  thoughts  of  the 
surprise  I  had  in  store  for  my  little  wife;  for  both 
of  us  had  expected  nothing  but  that  I  should  spend 
all  the  money  I  had  borrowed,  and  should  return  in 
debt. 

"  Our  meeting  was  joyous,  as  you  may  suppose,  but 
I  played  the  part  of  the  Indian  hunter,  who,  when  he 
returns  from  the  chase,  never  for  a  time  speaks  of  his 
success.  She  had  prepared  a  snug  little  rustic  meal  for 
me,  and  while  it  was  getting  ready,  I  seated  myself  at 
an  old-fashioned  desk  in  one  corner,  and  began  to 
count  over  my  money  and  put  it  away.  She  came  to 
me  before  I  had  finished  and  asked  who  I  had  col 
lected  the  money  for. 

"  '  For  myself,  to  be  sure/  replied  I,  with  affected 
coolness ;  '  I  made  it  at  court.' 

"  She  looked  me  for  a  moment  in  the  face,  incredu 
lously.  I  tried  to  keep  my  countenance,  and  to  play 
Indian,  but  it  would  not  do.  My  muscles  began  to 
twitch ;  my  feelings  all  at  once  gave  way.  I  caught  her 
in  my  arms;  laughed,  cried,  and  danced  about  the 


EXPERIENCES  OF  RALPH  RINGWOOD     255 

room,  like  a  crazy  man.  From  that  time  forward,  we 
never  wanted  for  money. 

"  I  had  not  been  long  in  successful  practice,  when  I 
was  surprised  one  day  by  a  visit  from  my  woodland 
patron,  old  Miller.  The  tidings  of  my  prosperity  had 
reached  him  in  the  wilderness,  and  he  had  walked  one 
hundred  and  fifty  miles  on  foot  to  see  me.  By  that 
time  I  had  improved  my  domestic  establishment,  and 
had  all  things  comfortable  about  me.  He  looked 
around  him  with  a  wondering  eye,  at  what  he  con 
sidered  luxuries  and  superfluities;  but  supposed  they 
were  all  right,  in  my  altered  circumstances.  He  said 
he  did  not  know,  upon  the  whole,  but  that  I  acted  for 
the  best.  It  is  true,  if  game  had  continued  plenty,  it 
would  have  been  a  folly  for  me  to  quit  a  hunter's  life; 
but  hunting  was  pretty  nigh  done  up  in  Kentucky. 
The  buffalo  had  gone  to  Missouri ;  the  elk  were  nearly 
gone  also ;  deer,  too,  were  growing  scarce ;  they  might 
last  out  his  time,  as  he  was  growing  old,  but  they  were 
not  worth  setting  up  life  upon.  He  had  once  lived 
on  the  borders  of  Virginia.  Game  grew  scarce  there; 
he  followed  it  up  across  Kentucky,  and  now  it  was 
again  giving  him  the  slip ;  but  he  was  too  old  to  follow 
it  farther. 

"  He  remained  with  us  three  days.  My  wife  did 
everything  in  her  power  to  make  him  comfortable; 
but  at  the  end  of  that  time  he  said  he  must  be  off  again 
to  the  woods.  He  was  tired  of  the  village,  and  of 
having  so  many  people  about  him.  He  accordingly 
returned  to  the  wilderness,  and  to  hunting  life.  But  I 
fear  he  did  not  make  a  good  end  of  it;  for  I  under 
stand  that  a  few  years  before  his  death,  he  married 
Sukey  Thomas,  who  lived  at  the  White  Oak  Run." 


THE  SEMINOLES 


THE  SEMINOLES 

FROM  the  time  of  the  chimerical  cruisings  of  Old 
Ponce  de  Leon  in  search  of  the  Fountain  of  Youth; 
the  avaricious  expedition  of  Pamphilo  de  Narvaez 
in  quest  of  gold;  and  the  chivalrous  enterprise  of 
Hernando  de  Soto,  to  discover  and  conquer  a  second 
Mexico,  the  natives  of  Florida  have  been  continually 
subjected  to  the  invasions  and  encroachments  of  white 
men.  They  had  resisted  them  perseveringly  but  fruit 
lessly,  and  are  now  battling  amidst  swamps  and  mo 
rasses,  for  the  last  foothold  of  their  native  soil,  with 
all  the  ferocity  of  despair.  Can  we  wonder  at  the  bit 
terness  of  a  hostility  that  has  been  handed  down  from 
father  to  son  for  upward  of  three  centuries,  and  exas 
perated  by  the  wrongs  and  miseries  of  each  succeeding 
generation !  The  very  name  of  the  savages  with  whom 
we  are  righting,  betokens  their  fallen  and  homeless 
condition.  Formed  of  the  wrecks  of  once  powerful 
tribes,  and  driven  from  their  ancient  seats  of  pros 
perity  and  dominion,  they  are  known  by  the  name  of 
the  Seminoles,  or  "  Wanderers." 

Bartram,  who  travelled  through  Florida  in  the  latter 
part  of  the  last  century,  speaks  of  passing  through  a 
great  extent  of  ancient  Indian  fields,  now  silent  and 
deserted,  overgrown  with  forests,  orange  groves,  and 
rank  vegetation,  the  sight  of  the  ancient  Alachua,  the 
capital  of  a  famous  and  powerful  tribe,  who  in  days 
of  old  could  assemble  thousands  at  bull-play  and  other 
athletic  exercises  "  over  these  then  happy  fields  and 
green  plains."  "  Almost  every  step  we  take,"  adds  he, 
"  over  these  fertile  heights,  discovers  the  remains  and 
traces  of  ancient  human  habitations  and  cultivation." 


THE  SEMINOLES  257 

We  are  told  that  about  the  year  1763,  when  Florida 
was  ceded  by  the  Spaniards  to  the  English,  the  Indians 
generally  retired  from  the  towns  and  the  neighborhood 
of  the  whites,  and  burying  themselves  in  the  deep 
forests,  intricate  swamps  and  hommocks,  and  vast 
savannahs  of  the  interior,  devoted  themselves  to  a  pas 
toral  life,  and  the  rearing  of  horses  and  cattle.  These 
are  the  people  that  received  the  name  of  the  Seminoles, 
or  Wanderers,  which  they  still  retain. 

Bartram  gives  a  pleasing  picture  of  them  at  the  time 
he  visited  them  in  their  wilderness,  where  their  dis 
tance  from  the  abodes  of  the  white  man  gave  them  a 
transient  quiet  and  security.  "  This  handful  of  people," 
says  he,  "  possesses  a  vast  territory,  all  East  and  the 
greatest  part  of  West  Florida,  which  being  naturally 
cut  and  divided  into  thousands  of  islets,  knolls,  and 
eminences,  by  the  innumerable  rivers,  lakes,  swamps, 
vast  savannahs,  and  ponds,  form  so  many  secure  re 
treats  and  temporary  dwelling-places  that  effectually 
guard  them  from  any  sudden  invasions  or  attacks 
from  their  enemies;  and  being  such  a  swampy,  hom- 
mocky  country,  furnishes  such  a  plenty  and  variety 
of  supplies  for  the  nourishment  of  varieties  of  animals, 
that  I  can  venture  to  assert,  that  no  part  of  the  globe 
so  abounds  with  wild  game,  or  creatures  fit  for  the 
food  of  man. 

"  Thus  they  enjoy  a  superabundance  of  the  neces 
saries  and  conveniences  of  life,  with  the  security  of 
person  and  property,  the  two  great  concerns  of  man 
kind.  The  hides  of  deer,  bears,  tigers,  and  wolves, 
together  with  honey,  wax,  and  other  productions  of 
the  country,  purchase  their  clothing  equipage  and 
domestic  utensils  from  the  whites.  They  seem  to  be 
free  from  want  or  desires.  No  cruel  enemy  to  dread ; 
nothing  to  give  them  disquietude,  but  the  gradual  en 
croachments  of  the  white  people.  Thus  contented  and 
undisturbed,  they  appear  as  blithe  and  free  as  the  birds 

17 


258  THE  SEMINOLES 

of  the  air,  and  like  them  as  volatile  and  active,  tune 
ful  and  vociferous.  The  visage,  action,  and  deport 
ment  of  the  Seminoles  form  the  most  striking  picture 
of  happiness  in  this  life;  joy,  contentment,  love,  and 
friendship,  without  guile  or  affectation,  seem  inherent 
in  them,  or  predominant  in  their  vital  principle,  for  it 
leaves  them  with  but  the  last  breath  of  life.  .  .  .  They 
are  fond  of  games  and  gambling,  and  amuse  them 
selves  like  children,  in  relating  extravagant  stories,  to 
cause  surprise  and  mirth."  * 

The  same  writer  gives  an  engaging  picture  of  his 
treatment  by  these  savages: 

"  Soon  after  entering  the  forests,  we  were  met  in 
the  path  by  a  small  company  of  Indians,  smiling  and 
beckoning  to  us  long  before  we  joined  them.  This  was 
a  family  of  Talahasochte,  who  had  been  out  on  a  hunt 
and  were  returning  home  loaded  with  barbacued  meat, 
hides,  and  honey.  Their  company  consisted  of  the 
man,  his  wife  and  children,  well  mounted  on  fine 
horses,  with  a  number  of  pack-horses.  The  man 
offered  us  a  fawn-skin  of  honey,  which  I  accepted,  and 
at  parting  presented  him  with  some  fish-hooks,  sewing- 
needles,  etc. 

"  On  our  return  to  camp  in  the  evening,  we  were 
saluted  by  a  party  of  young  Indian  warriors,  who  had 
pitched  their  tents  on  a  green  eminence  near  the  lake, 
at  a  small  distance  from  our  camp,  under  a  little  grove 
of  oaks  and  palms.  This  company  consisted  of  seven 
young  Seminoles,  under  the  conduct  of  a  young  prince 
or  chief  of  Talahasochte,  a  town  southward  in  the 
Isthmus.  They  were  all  dressed  and  painted  with 
singular  elegance,  and  richly  ornamented  with  silver 
plates,  chains,  etc.,  after  the  Seminole  mode,  with  wav 
ing  plumes  of  feathers  on  their  crests.  On  our  coming 
up  to  them,  they  arose  and  shook  hands ;  we  alighted, 
and  sat  a  while  with  them  by  their  cheerful  fire. 

1  Bartram's  Travels  in  North  America. 


THE  SEMINOLES  259 

"  The  young  prince  informed  our  chief  that  he  was 
in  pursuit  of  a  young  fellow  who  had  fled  from  the 
town,  carrying  off  with  him  one  of  his  favorite  young 
wives.  He  said,  merrily,  he  would  have  the  ears  of 
both  of  them  before  he  returned.  He  was  rather 
above  the  middle  stature,  and  the  most  perfect  human 
figure  I  ever  saw;  of  an  amiable,  engaging  counte 
nance,  air,  and  deportment;  free  and  familiar  in  con 
versation,  yet  retaining  a  becoming  gracefulness  and 
dignity.  We  arose,  took  leave  of  them,  and  crossed 
a  little  vale,  covered  with  a  charming  green  turf,  al 
ready  illuminated  by  the  soft  light  of  the  full  moon. 

"  Soon  after  joining  our  companions  at  camp,  our 
neighbors,  the  prince  and  his  associates,  paid  us  a  visit. 
We  treated  them  with  the  best  fare  we  had,  having 
till  this  time  preserved  our  spirituous  liquors.  They 
left  us  with  perfect  cordiality  and  cheerfulness,  wish 
ing  us  a  good  repose,  and  retired  to  their  own  camp. 
Having  a  band  of  music  with  them,  consisting  of  a 
drum,  flutes,  and  a  rattle-gourd,  they  entertained 
us  during  the  night  with  their  music,  vocal  and 
instrumental. 

"  There  is  a  languishing  softness  and  melancholy  air 
in  the  Indian  convivial  songs,  especially  of  the  amorous 
class,  irresistibly  moving  attention,  and  exquisitely 
pleasing,  especially  in  their  solitary  recesses,  when  all 
Nature  is  silent." 

Travellers  who  have  been  among  them,  in  more  re 
cent  times,  before  they  had  embarked  in  their  present 
desperate  struggle,  represent  them  in  much  the  same 
light;  as  leading  a  pleasant,  indolent  life,  in  a  climate 
that  required  little  shelter  or  clothing,  and  where  the 
spontaneous  fruits  of  the  earth  furnished  subsistence 
without  toil.  A  cleanly  race,  delighting  in  bathing, 
passing  much  of  their  time  under  the  shade  of  their 
trees,  with  heaps  of  oranges  and  other  fine  fruits  for 
their  refreshment;  talking,  laughing,  dancing,  and 


2<5o  THE  SEMINOLES 

sleeping.  Every  chief  had  a  fan  hanging  to  his  side, 
made  of  feathers  of  the  wild  turkey,  the  beautiful  pink- 
colored  crane,  or  the  scarlet  flamingo.  With  this  he 
would  sit  and  fan  himself  with  great  stateliness,  while 
the  young  people  danced  before  him.  The  women 
joined  in  the  dances  with  the  men,  excepting  the  war- 
dances.  They  wore  strings  of  tortoise-shells  and  peb 
bles  round  their  legs,  which  rattled  in  cadence  to  the 
music.  They  were  treated  with  more  attention  among 
the  Seminoles  than  among  most  Indian  tribes. 


ORIGIN    OF   THE    WHITE,   THE    RED,   AND 
THE  BLACK  MEN 

A   SEMINOLE  TRADITION 

When  the  Floridas  were  erected  into  a  territory  of 
the  United  States,  one  of  the  earliest  cares  of  the 
Governor,  William  P.  Duval,  was  directed  to  the  in 
struction  and  civilization  of  the  natives.  For  this 
purpose  he  called  a  meeting  of  the  chiefs,  in  which  he 
informed  them  of  the  wish  of  their  Great  Father  at 
Washington  that  they  should  have  schools  and  teach 
ers  among  them,  and  that  their  children  should  be  in 
structed  like  the  children  of  white  men.  The  chiefs 
listened  with  their  customary  silence  and  decorum  to 
a  long  speech,  setting  forth  the  advantages  that  would 
accrue  to  them  from  this  'measure,  and  when  he  had 
concluded,  begged  the  interval  of  a  day  to  deliberate 
on  it. 

On  the  following  day,  a  solemn  convocation  was 
held,  at  which  one  of  the  chiefs  addressed  the  Gov 
ernor  in  the  name  of  all  the  rest.  "  My  brother,"  said 
he,  "  we  have  been  thinking  over  the  proposition  of  our 
Great  Father  at  Washington,  to  send  teachers  and  set 
up  schools  among  us.  We  are  very  thankful  for  the 


WHITE,   RED,  AND  BLACK  MEN      261 

interest  he  takes  in  our  welfare;  but  after  much  de 
liberation  have  concluded  to  decline  his  offer.  What 
will  do  very  well  for  white  men,  will  not  do  for  red 
men.  I  know  you  white  men  say  we  all  come  from  the 
same  father  and  mother,  but  you  are  mistaken.  We 
have  a  tradition  handed  down  from  our  forefathers, 
and  we  believe  it,  that  the  Great  Spirit,  when  he  under 
took  to  make  men,  made  the  black  man;  it  was  his 
first  attempt,  and  pretty  well  for  a  beginning;  but  he 
soon  saw  he  had  bungled ;  so  he  determined  to  try  his 
hand  again.  He  did  so,  and  made  the  red  man.  He 
liked  him  much  better  than  the  black  man,  but  still  he 
was  not  exactly  what  he  wanted.  So  he  tried  once 
more,  and  made  the  white  man ;  and  then  he  was  satis 
fied.  You  see,  therefore,  that  you  were  made  last, 
and  that  is  the  reason  I  call  you  my  youngest  brother. 

"  When  the  Great  Spirit  had  made  the  three  men, 
he  called  them  together  and  showed  them  three  boxes. 
The  first  was  filled  with  books,  and  maps,  and  papers ; 
the  second  with  bows  and  arrows,  knives  and  toma 
hawks;  the  third  with  spades,  axes,  hoes,  and  ham 
mers.  '  These,  my  sons/  said  he,  '  are  the  means  by 
which  you  are  to  live;  choose  among  them  according 
to  your  fancy.' 

"  The  white  man,  being  the  favorite,  had  the  first 
choice.  He  passed  by  the  box  of  working-tools  with 
out  notice ;  but  when  he  came  to  the  weapons  for  war 
and  hunting,  he  stopped  and  looked  hard  at  them.  The 
red  man  trembled,  for  he  had  set  his  heart  upon  that 
box.  The  white  man,  however,  after  looking  upon  it 
for  a  moment,  passed  on,  and  chose  the  box  of  books 
and  papers.  The  red  man's  turn  came  next,  and  you 
may  be  sure  he  seized  with  joy  upon  the  bows  and 
arrows  and  tomahawks.  As  to  the  black  man,  he  had 
no  choice  left,  but  to  put  up  with  the  box  of  tools. 

"  From  this  it  is  clear  that  the  Great  Spirit  intended 
the  white  man  should  learn  to  read  and  write,  to 


262  THE  SEMINOLES 

understand  all  about  the  moon  and  stars,  and  to  make 
everything,  even  rum  and  whiskey.  That  the  red  man 
should  be  a  first-rate  hunter,  and  a  mighty  warrior, 
but  he  was  not  to  learn  anything  from  books,  as  the 
Great  Spirit  had  not  given  him  any;  nor  was  he  to 
make  rum  and  whiskey,  lest  he  should  kill  himself 
with  drinking.  As  to  the  black  man,  as  he  had  noth 
ing  but  working-tools,  it  was  clear  he  was  to  work  for 
the  white  and  red  man,  which  he  has  continued  to  do. 

"  We  must  go  according  to  the  wishes  of  the  Great 
Spirit,  or  we  shall  get  into  trouble.  To  know  how  to 
read  and  write  is  very  good  for  white  men,  but  very 
bad  for  red  men.  It  makes  white  men  better,  but  red 
men  worse.  Some  of  the  Creeks  and  Cherokees  learnt 
to  read  and  write,  and  they  are  the  greatest  rascals 
among  all  the  Indians.  They  went  on  to  Washington, 
and  said  they  were  going  to  see  their  Great  Father,  to 
talk  about  the  good  of  the  nation.  And  when  they  got 
there,  they  all  wrote  upon  a  little  piece  of  paper,  with 
out  the  nation  at  home  knowing  anything  about  it. 
And  the  first  thing  the  nation  at  home  knew  of  the 
matter,  they  were  called  together  by  the  Indian  agent, 
who  showed  them  a  little  piece  of  paper,  which  he  told 
them  was  a  treaty  which  their  brethren  had  made  in 
their  name  with  their  Great  Father  at  Washington. 
And  as  they  knew  not  what  a  treaty  was,  he  held  up 
the  little  piece  of  paper,  and  they  looked  under  it,  and 
lo!  it  covered  a  great  extent  of  country,  and  they 
found  that  their  brethren,  by  knowing  how  to  read  and 
write,  had  sold  their  houses,  and  their  lands,  and  the 
graves  of  their  fathers;  and  that  the  white  man,  by 
knowing  how  to  read  and  write,  had  gained  them. 
Tell  our  Great  Father  at  Washington,  therefore,  that 
we  are  very  sorry  we  cannot  receive  teachers  among  us ; 
for  reading  and  writing,  though  very  good  for  white 
men,  is  very  bad  for  Indians." 


THE  CONSPIRACY  OF  NEAMATHLA  263 
THE  CONSPIRACY  OF  NEAMATHLA 

AN   AUTHENTIC   SKETCH 

In  the  autumn  of  1823,  Governor  Duval,  and  other 
commissioners  on  the  part  of  the  United  States,  con 
cluded  a  treaty  with  the  chiefs  and  warriors  of  the 
Florida  Indians,  by  which  the  latter,  for  certain  con 
siderations,  ceded  all  claims  to  the  whole  territory, 
excepting  a  district  in  the  eastern  part,  to  which  they 
were  to  remove,  and  within  which  they  were  to  reside 
for  twenty  years.  Several  of  the  chiefs  signed  the 
treaty  with  great  reluctance ;  but  none  opposed  it  more 
strongly  than  Neamathla,  principal  chief  of  the  Micka- 
sookies,  a  fierce  and  warlike  people,  many  of  them 
Creeks  by  origin,  who  lived  about  the  Mickasookie  lake. 
Neamathla  had  always  been  active  in  those  depreda 
tions  on  the  frontiers  of  Georgia,  which  had  brought 
vengeance  and  ruin  on  the  Seminoles.  He  was  a  re 
markable  man;  upward  of  sixty  years  of  age,  about 
six  feet  high,  with  a  fine  eye,  and  a  strongly  marked 
countenance,  over  which  he  possessed  great  command. 
His  hatred  of  the  white  men  appeared  to  be  mixed  with 
contempt ;  on  the  common  people  he  looked  down  with 
infinite  scorn.  He  seemed  unwilling  to  acknowledge 
any  superiority  of  rank  or  dignity  in  Governor  Duval, 
claiming  to  associate  with  him  on  terms  of  equality,  as 
two  great  chieftains.  Though  he  had  been  prevailed 
upon  to  sign  the  treaty,  his  heart  revolted  at  it.  In 
one  of  his  frank  conversations  with  Governor  Duval, 
he  observed :  "  This  country  belongs  to  the  red  man ; 
and  if  I  had  the  number  of  warriors  at  my  command 
that  this  nation  once  had,  I  would  not  leave  a  white 
man  on  my  lands.  I  would  exterminate  the  whole. 
I  can  say  this  to  you,  for  you  can  understand  me ;  you 
are  a  man;  but  I  would  not  say  it  to  your  people. 


264  THE  SEMINOLES 

They  'd  cry  out  I  was  a  savage,  and  would  take  my 
life.  They  cannot  appreciate  the  feelings  of  a  man 
that  loves  his  country." 

As  Florida  had  but  recently  been  erected  into  a  terri 
tory,  everything  as  yet  was  in  rude  and  simple  style. 
The  Governor,  to  make  himself  acquainted  with  the 
Indians,  and  to  be  near  at  hand  to  keep  an  eye  upon 
them,  fixed  his  residence  at  Tallahassee,  near  the  Fowel 
towns,  inhabited  by  the  Mickasookies.  His  govern 
ment  palace  for  a  time  was  a  mere  log-house,  and  he 
lived  on  hunters'  fare.  The  village  of  Neamathla  was 
but  about  three  miles  off,  and  thither  the  Governor  oc 
casionally  rode,  to  visit  the  old  chieftain.  In  one  of 
these  visits  he  found  Neamathla  seated  in  his  wig 
wam,  in  the  centre  of  the  village,  surrounded  by  his 
warriors.  The  Governor  had  brought  him  some  liquor 
as  a  present,  but  it  mounted  quickly  into  his  brain,  and 
rendered  him  quite  boastful  and  belligerent.  The 
theme  ever  uppermost  in  his  mind  was  the  treaty  with 
the  whites.  "  It  was  true,"  he  said,  "  the  red  men  had 
made  such  a  treaty,  but  the  white  men  had  not  acted 
up  to  it.  The  red  men  had  received  none  of  the  money 
and  the  cattle  that  had  been  promised  them ;  the  treaty, 
therefore,  was  at  an  end,  and  they  did  not  mean  to  be 
bound  by  it." 

Governor  Duval  calmly  represented  to  him  that  the 
time  appointed  in  the  treaty  for  the  payment  and  de 
livery  of  the  money  and  the  cattle  had  not  yet  arrived. 
This  the  old  chieftain  knew  full  well,  but  he  chose,  for 
the  moment,  to  pretend  ignorance.  He  kept  on  drink 
ing  and  talking,  his  voice  growing  louder  and  louder, 
until  it  resounded  all  over  the  village.  He  held  in  his 
hand  a  long  knife,  with  which  he  had  been  rasping 
tobacco;  this  he  kept  flourishing  backward  and  for 
ward,  as  he  talked,  by  way  of  giving  effect  to  his 
words,  brandishing  it  at  times  within  an  inch  of  the 
Governor's  throat.  He  concluded  his  tirade  by  repeat- 


THE  CONSPIRACY  OF  NEAMATHLA    265 

ing  that  the  country  belonged  to  the  red  men,  and  that 
sooner  than  give  it  up,  his  bones  and  the  bones  of  his 
people  should  bleach  upon  its  soil. 

Duval  knew  that  the  object  of  all  this  bluster  was  to 
see  whether  he  could  be  intimidated.  He  kept  his  eye, 
therefore,  fixed  steadily  on  the  chief,  and  the  moment 
he  concluded  with  his  menace,  seized  him  by  the 
bosom  of  his  hunting-shirt,  and  clenching  his  other 
fist: 

"  I  've  heard  what  you  have  said,"  replied  he.  "  You 
have  made  a  treaty,  yet  you  say  your  bones  shall  bleach 
before  you  comply  with  it.  As  sure  as  there  is  a  sun 
in  heaven,  your  bones  shall  bleach  if  you  do  not  fulfil 
every  article  of  that  treaty !  I  '11  let  you  know  that  I 
am  first  here,  and  will  see  that  you  do  your  duty !  " 

Upon  this  the  old  chieftain  threw  himself  back,  burst 
into  a  fit  of  laughing,  and  declared  that  all  he  had  said 
was  in  joke.  The  Governor  suspected,  however,  that 
there  was  a  grave  meaning  at  the  bottom  of  this 
jocularity. 

For  two  months  everything  went  on  smoothly;  the 
Indians  repaired  daily  to  the  log-cabin  palace  of  the 
Governor  at  Tallahassee,  and  appeared  perfectly  con 
tented.  All  at  once  they  ceased  their  visits,  and  for 
three  or  four  days  not  one  was  to  be  seen.  Governor 
Duval  began  to  apprehend  that  some  mischief  was 
brewing.  On  the  evening  of  the  fourth  day,  a  chief 
named  Yellow-Hair,  a  resolute,  intelligent  fellow,  who 
had  always  evinced  an  attachment  for  the  Governor, 
entered  his  cabin  about  twelve  o'clock  at  night,  and  in 
formed  him,  that  between  four  and  five  hundred  war 
riors,  painted  and  decorated,  were  assembled  to  hold 
a  secret  war-talk  at  Neamathla's  town.  He  had  slipped 
off  to  give  intelligence,  at  the  risk  of  his  life,  and  has 
tened  back  lest  his  absence  should  be  discovered. 

Governor  Duval  passed  an  anxious  night  after  this 
intelligence.  He  knew  the  talent  and  the  daring  char- 


266  THE  SEMINOLES 

acter  of  Neamathla;  he  recollected  the  threats  he  had 
thrown  out ;  he  reflected  that  about  eighty  white  fami 
lies  were  scattered  widely  apart  over  a  great  extent  of 
country,  and  might  be  swept  away  at  once,  should  the 
Indians,  as  he  feared,  determine  to  clear  the  country. 
That  he  did  not  exaggerate  the  dangers  of  the  case, 
has  been  proved  by  the  horrid  scenes  of  Indian  war 
fare  which  have  since  desolated  that  devoted  region. 
After  a  night  of  sleepless  cogitation,  Duval  determined 
on  a  measure  suited  to  his  prompt  and  resolute  charac 
ter.  Knowing  the  admiration  of  the  savages  for  per 
sonal  courage,  he  determined,  by  a  sudden  surprise, 
to  endeavor  to  overawe  and  check  them.  It  was  haz 
arding  much;  but  where  so  many  lives  were  in  jeop 
ardy,  he  felt  bound  to  incur  the  hazard. 

Accordingly,  on  the  next  morning  he  set  off  on 
horseback,  attended  merely  by  a  white  man  who  had 
been  reared  among  the  Seminoles,  and  understood 
their  language  and  manners,  and  who  acted  as  inter 
preter.  They  struck  into  an  Indian  "  trail,"  leading  to 
Neamathla's  village.  After  proceeding  about  half  a 
mile,  Governor  Duval  informed  the  interpreter  of  the 
object  of  his  expedition.  The  latter,  though  a  bold 
man,  paused  and  remonstrated.  The  Indians  among 
whom  they  were  going  were  among  the  most  desperate 
and  discontented  of  the  nation.  Many  of  them  were 
veteran  warriors,  impoverished  and  exasperated  by 
defeat,  and  ready  to  set  their  lives  at  any  hazard.  He 
said  that  if  they  were  holding  a  war-council,  it  must 
be  with  desperate  intent,  and  it  would  be  certain  death 
to  intrude  among  them. 

Duval  made  light  of  his  apprehensions;  he  said  he 
was  perfectly  well  acquainted  with  the  Indian  charac 
ter,  and  should  certainly  proceed.  So  saying,  he  rode 
on.  When  within  half  a  mile  of  the  village,  the  inter 
preter  addressed  him  again  in  such  a  tremulous  tone, 
that  Duval  turned  and  looked  him  in  the  face.  He 


THE  CONSPIRACY  OF  NEAMATHLA    267 

was  deadly  pale,  and  once  more  urged  the  Governor 
to  return,  as  they  would  certainly  be  massacred  if  they 
proceeded. 

Duval  repeated  his  determination  to  go  on,  but  ad 
vised  the  other  to  return,  lest  his  pale  face  should  be 
tray  fear  to  the  Indians,  and  they  might  take  advan 
tage  of  it.  The  interpreter  replied  that  he  would  rather 
die  a  thousand  deaths  than  have  it  said  he  had  deserted 
his  leader  when  in  peril. 

Duval  then  told  him  he  must  translate  faithfully  all 
he  should  say  to  the  Indians,  without  softening  a  word. 
The  interpreter  promised  faithfully  to  do  so,  adding 
that  he  well  knew,  when  they  were  once  in  the  town, 
nothing  but  boldness  could  save  them. 

They  now  rode  into  the  village  and  advanced  to  the 
council-house.  This  was  rather  a  group  of  four 
houses,  forming  a  square,  in  the  centre  of  which  was 
a  great  council-fire.  The  houses  were  open  in  front 
toward  the  fire,  and  closed  in  the  rear.  At  each  corner 
of  the  square  there  was  an  interval  between  the  houses 
for  ingress  and  egress.  In  these  houses  sat  the  old 
men  and  the  chiefs;  the  young  men  were  gathered 
round  the  fire.  Neamathla  presided  at  the  council, 
elevated  on  a  higher  seat  than  the  rest. 

Governor  Duval  entered  by  one  of  the  corner  inter 
vals,  and  rode  boldly  into  the  centre  of  the  square.  The 
young  men  made  way  for  him;  an  old  man  who  was 
speaking,  paused  in  the  midst  of  his  harangue.  In  an 
instant  thirty  or  forty  rifles  were  cocked  and  levelled. 
Never  had  Duval  heard  so  loud  a  click  of  triggers; 
it  seemed  to  strike  to  his  heart.  He  gave  one  glance 
at  the  Indians,  and  turned  off  with  an  air  of  contempt. 
He  did  not  dare,  he  says,  to  look  again,  lest  it  might 
affect  his  nerves,  and  on  the  firmness  of  his  nerves 
everything  depended. 

The  chief  threw  up  his  arm.  The  rifles  were  low 
ered.  Duval  breathed  more  freely;  he  felt  disposed 


268    /.;  THE  SEMINOLES 

to  leap  from  his  horse,  but  restrained  himself,  and 
dismounted  leisurely.  He  then  walked  deliberately  up 
to  Neamathla,  and  demanded,  in  an  authoritative  tone, 
what  were  his  motives  for  holding  that  council.  The 
moment  he  made  this  demand,  the  orator  sat  down. 
The  chief  made  no  reply,  but  hung  his  head  in  apparent 
confusion.  After  a  moment's  pause,  Duval  proceeded  : 

"  I  am  well  aware  of  the  meaning  of  this  war- 
council,  and  deem  it  my  duty  to  warn  you  against  pros 
ecuting  the  schemes  you  have  been  devising.  If  a 
single  hair  of  a  white  man  in  this  country  falls  to  the 
ground,  I  will  hang  you  and  your  chiefs  on  the  trees 
around  your  council-house!  You  cannot  pretend  to 
withstand  the  power  of  the  white  men.  You  are  in 
the  palm  of  the  hand  of  your  Great  Father  at  Wash 
ington,  who  can  crush  you  like  an  egg-shell !  You  may 
kill  me ;  I  am  but  one  man ;  but  recollect,  white  men 
are  numerous  as  the  leaves  on  the  trees.  Remember 
the  fate  of  your  warriors  whose  bones  are  whitening 
in  battlefields.  Remember  your  wives  and  children 
who  perished  in  swamps.  Do  you  want  to  provoke 
more  hostilities?  Another  war  with  the  white  men, 
and  there  will  not  be  a  Seminole  left  to  tell  the  story 
of  his  race." 

Seeing  the  effect  of  his  words,  he  concluded  by  ap 
pointing  a  day  for  the  Indians  to  meet  him  at  St. 
Marks  and  give  an  account  of  their  conduct.  He  then 
rode  off,  without  giving  them  time  to  recover  from 
their  surprise.  That  night  he  rode  forty  miles  to  Apa- 
lachicola  River,  to  the  tribe  of  the  same  name,  who 
were  in  feud  with  the  Seminoles.  They  promptly  put 
two  hundred  and  fifty  warriors  at  his  disposal,  whom 
he  ordered  to  be  at  St.  Marks  at  the  appointed  day. 
He  sent  out  runners  also,  and  mustered  one  hundred  of 
the  militia  to  repair  to  the  same  place,  together  with 
a  number  of  regulars  from  the  army.  All  his  arrange 
ments  were  successful. 


THE  CONSPIRACY  OF  NEAMATHLA    269 

Having  taken  these  measures,  he  returned  to  Talla 
hassee,  to  the  neighborhood  of  the  conspirators,  to 
show  them  that  he  was  not  afraid.  Here  he  ascer 
tained,  through  Yellow-Hair,  that  nine  towns  were 
disaffected,  and  had  been  concerned  in  the  conspiracy. 
He  was  careful  to  inform  himself,  from  the  same 
source,  of  the  names  of  the  warriors  in  each  of  those 
towns  who  were  most  popular,  though  poor  and  desti 
tute  of  rank  and  command. 

When  the  appointed  day  was  at  hand  for  the  meet 
ing  at  St.  Marks,  Governor  Duval  set  off  with  Nea- 
mathla,  who  was  at  the  head  of  eight  or  nine  hundred 
warriors,  but  who  feared  to  venture  into  the  fort  with 
out  him.  As  they  entered  the  fort,  and  saw  troops  and 
militia  drawn  up  there,  and  a  force  of  Apalachicola 
soldiers  stationed  on  the  opposite  bank  of  the  river, 
they  thought  they  were  betrayed,  and  were  about  to 
fly,  but  Duval  assured  them  they  were  safe,  and  that 
when  the  talk  was  over  they  might  go  home  unmolested. 

A  grand  talk  was  now  held,  in  which  the  late  con 
spiracy  was  discussed.  As  he  had  foreseen,  Neamathla 
and  the  other  old  chiefs  threw  all  the  blame  upon  the 
young  men.  "  Well,"  replied  Duval,  "  with  us  white 
men,  when  we  find  a  man  incompetent  to  govern  those 
under  him,  we  put  him  down  and  appoint  another  in 
his  place.  Now,  as  you  all  acknowledge  you  cannot 
manage  your  young  men,  we  must  put  chiefs  over  them 
who  can." 

So  saying,  he  deposed  Neamathla  first,  appointing 
another  in  his  place ;  and  so  on  with  all  the  rest,  taking 
care  to  substitute  the  warriors  who  had  been  pointed 
out  to  him  as  poor  and  popular ;  putting  medals  round 
their  necks,  and  investing  them  with  great  ceremony. 
The  Indians  were  surprised  and  delighted  at  finding 
the  appointments  fall  upon  the  very  men  they  would 
themselves  have  chosen,  and  hailed  them  with  accla 
mations.  The  warriors  thus  unexpectedly  elevated  to 


270  THE  COUNT  VAN  HORN 

command,  and  clothed  with  dignity,  were  secured  to 
the  interests  of  the  Governor,  and  sure  to  keep  an  eye 
on  the  disaffected.  As  to  the  great  chief  Neamathla, 
he  left  the  country  in  disgust,  and  returned  to  the 
Creek  Nation,  who  elected  him  a  chief  of  one  of  their 
towns.  Thus  by  the  resolute  spirit  and  prompt  sagacity 
of  one  man,  a  dangerous  conspiracy  was  completely 
defeated.  Governor  Duval  was  afterwards  enabled  to 
remove  the  whole  nation,  through  his  own  personal 
influence,  without  the  aid  of  the  General  Government. 

NOTE.  —  The  foregoing  anecdotes  concerning  the 
Seminoles  were  gathered  in  conversation  with  Gov 
ernor  Duval  (the  original  of  Ralph  Ringwood). 


THE  COUNT  VAN  HORN 

DURING  the  minority  of  Louis  XV.,  while  the  Duke 
of  Orleans  was  Regent  of  France,  a  young  Flemish 
nobleman,  the  Count  Antoine  Joseph  Van  Horn,  made 
his  sudden  appearance  in  Paris,  and  by  his  character, 
conduct,  and  the  subsequent  disasters  in  which  he  be 
came  involved,  created  a  great  sensation  in  the  high 
circles  of  the  proud  aristocracy.  He  was  about  twenty- 
two  years  of  age,  tall,  finely  formed,  with  a  pale,  ro 
mantic  countenance,  and  eyes  of  remarkable  brilliancy 
and  wildness. 

He  was  of  one  of  the  most  ancient  and  highly  es 
teemed  families  of  European  nobility,  being  of  the 
line  of  the  Princes  of  Horn  and  Overique,  sovereign 
Counts  of  Hautekerke,  and  hereditary  Grand  Veneurs 
of  the  empire. 

The  family  took  its  name  from  the  little  town  and 
seigneurie  of  Horn,  in  Brabant;  and  was  known  as 
early  as  the  eleventh  century  among  the  little  dynasties 


THE  COUNT  VAN   HORN  271 

of  the  Netherlands,  and  since  that  time,  by  a  long  line 
of  illustrious  generations.  At  the  peace  of  Utrecht, 
when  the  Netherlands  passed  under  subjection  to 
Austria,  the  house  of  Van  Horn  came  under  the 
domination  of  the  emperor.  At  the  time  we  treat  of, 
two  of  the  branches  of  this  ancient  house  were  extinct; 
the  third  and  only  surviving  branch  was  represented 
by  the  reigning  prince,  Maximilian  Emanuel  Van 
Horn,  twenty-four  years  of  age,  who  resided  in  honor 
able  and  courtly  style  on  his  hereditary  domains  at 
Baussigny,  in  the  Netherlands,  and  his  brother  the 
Count  Antoine  Joseph,  who  is  the  subject  of  this 
memoir. 

The  ancient  house  of  Van  Horn,  by  the  intermar 
riage  of  its  various  branches  with  the  noble  families 
of  the  Continent,  had  become  widely  connected  and 
interwoven  with  the  high  aristocracy  of  Europe.  The 
Count  Antoine,  therefore,  could  claim  relationship  to 
many  of  the  proudest  names  in  Paris.  In  fact,  he 
was  grandson,  by  the  mother's  side,  of  the  Prince 
de  Ligne,  and  even  might  boast  of  affinity  to  the 
Regent  (the  Duke  of  Orleans)  himself.  There  were 
circumstances,  however,  connected  with  his  sudden 
appearance  in  Paris,  and  his  previous  story,  that  placed 
him  in  what  is  termed  "  a  false  position  " ;  a  word  of 
baleful  significance  in  the  fashionable  vocabulary  of 
France. 

The  young  Count  had  been  a  captain  in  the  service 
of  Austria,  but  had  been  cashiered  for  irregular  con 
duct,  and  for  disrespect  to  Prince  Louis  of  Baden, 
commander-in-chief.  To  check  him  in  his  wild  career, 
and  bring  him  to  sober  reflection,  his  brother  the 
Prince  caused  him  to  be  arrested,  and  sent  to  the  old 
castle  of  Van  Wert,  in  the  domains  of  Horn.  This 
was  the  same  castle  in  which,  in  former  times,  John 
Van  Horn,  Stadtholder  of  Gueldres,  had  imprisoned 
his  father;  a  circumstance  which  has  furnished  Rem- 


272  THE  COUNT  VAN  HORN 

brandt  with  the  subject  of  an  admirable  painting.  The 
governor  of  the  castle  was  one  Van  Wert,  grandson  of 
the  famous  John  Van  Wert,  the  hero  of  many  a  popular 
song  and  legend.  It  was  the  intention  of  the  Prince 
that  his  brother  should  be  held  in  honorable  durance, 
for  his  object  was  to  sober  and  improve,  not  to  punish 
and  afflict  him.  Van  Wert,  however,  was  a  stern, 
harsh  man,  of  violent  passions.  He  treated  the  youth 
in  a  manner  that  prisoners  and  offenders  were  treated 
in  the  strongholds  of  the  robber  counts  of  Germany, 
in  old  times;  confined  him  in  a  dungeon,  and  inflicted 
on  him  such  hardships  and  indignities,  that  the  irritable 
temperament  of  the  young  count  was  roused  to  con 
tinual  fury,  which  ended  in  insanity.  For  six  months 
was  the  unfortunate  youth  kept  in  this  horrible  state, 
without  his  brother  the  Prince  being  informed  of  his 
melancholy  condition,  or  of  the  cruel  treatment  to 
which  he  was  subjected.  At  length,  one  day,  in  a 
paroxysm  of  frenzy,  the  Count  knocked  down  two  of 
his  jailers  with  a  beetle,  escaped  from  the  castle  of  Van 
Wert,  and  eluded  all  pursuit;  and  after  roving  about 
in  a  state  of  distraction,  made  his  way  to  Baussigny, 
and  appeared  like  a  spectre  before  his  brother. 

The  Prince  was  shocked  at  his  wretched,  emaciated 
appearance,  and  his  lamentable  state  of  mental  aliena 
tion.  He  received  him  with  the  most  compassionate 
tenderness;  lodged  him  in  his  own  room;  appointed 
three  servants  to  attend  and  watch  over  him  day  and 
night;  and  endeavored,  by  the  most  soothing  and  af 
fectionate  assiduity,  to  atone  for  the  past  act  of  rigor 
with  which  he  reproached  himself.  When  he  learned, 
however,  the  manner  in  which  his  unfortunate  brother 
had  been  treated  in  confinement,  and  the  course  of  bru 
talities  that  had  led  to  his  mental  malady,  he  was  aroused 
to  indignation.  His  first  step  was  to  cashier  Van  Wert 
from  his  command.  That  violent  man  set  the  Prince 
at  defiance,  and  attempted  to  maintain  himself  in  his 


THE  COUNT  VAN  HORN  273 

government  and  his  castle,  by  instigating  the  peasants, 
for  several  leagues  round,  to  revolt.  His  insurrection 
might  have  been  formidable  against  the  power  of  a 
petty  prince;  but  he  was  put  under  the  ban  of  the 
empire,  and  seized  as  a  state  prisoner.  The  memory 
of  his  grandfather,  the  oft-sung  John  Van  Wert, 
alone  saved  him  from  a  gibbet ;  but  he  was  imprisoned 
in  the  strong  tower  of  Horn-op-Zee.  There  he  re 
mained  until  he  was  eighty-two  years  of  age,  savage, 
violent,  and  unconquered  to  the  last;  for  we  are  told 
that  he  never  ceased  fighting  and  thumping,  as  long 
as  he  could  close  a  fist  or  wield  a  cudgel. 

In  the  mean  time,  a  course  of  kind  and  gentle  treat 
ment  and  wholesome  regimen,  and,  above  all,  the  ten 
der  and  affectionate  assiduity  of  his  brother,  the  Prince, 
produced  the  most  salutary  effects  upon  Count  Antoine 
He  gradually  recovered  his  reason;  but  a  degree  of 
violence  seemed  always  lurking  at  the  bottom  of  his 
character,  and  he  required  to  be  treated  with  the 
greatest  caution  and  mildness,  for  the  least  con 
tradiction  exasperated  him. 

In  this  state  of  mental  convalescence,  he  began  to 
find  the  supervision  and  restraints  of  brotherly  affec 
tion  insupportable;  so  he  left  the  Netherlands  fur 
tively,  and  repaired  to  Paris,  whither,  in  fact,  it  is  said 
he  was  called  by  motives  of  interest,  to  make  arrange 
ments  concerning  a  valuable  estate  which  he  inherited 
from  his  relative,  the  Princess  d'Epinay. 

On  his  arrival  in  Paris,  he  called  upon  the  Marquis 
of  Crequi,  and  other  of  the  high  nobility  with  whom 
he  was  connected.  He  was  received  with  great  cour 
tesy;  but,  as  he  brought  no  letters  from  his  elder 
brother,  the  Prince,  and  as  various  circumstances  of 
his  previous  history  had  transpired,  they  did  not  receive 
him  into  their  families,  nor  introduce  him  to  their 
ladies.  Still  they  feted  him  in  bachelor  style,  gave  him 
gay  and  elegant  suppers  at  their  separate  apartments, 

18 


274  THE  COUNT  VAN  HORN 

and  took  him  to  their  boxes  at  the  theatres.  He  was 
often  noticed,  too,  at  the  doors  of  the  most  fashionable 
churches,  taking  his  stand  among  the  young  men  of 
fashion ;  and  at  such  times,  his  tall,  elegant  figure,  his 
pale  but  handsome  countenance,  and  his  flashing  eyes, 
distinguished  him  from  among  the  crowd;  and  the 
ladies  declared  that  it  was  almost  impossible  to  support 
his  ardent  gaze. 

The  Count  did  not  afflict  himself  much  at  his  limited 
circulation  in  the  fastidious  circles  of  the  high  aristoc 
racy.  He  relished  society  of  a  wilder  and  less  cere 
monious  cast;  and  meeting  with  loose  companions  to 
his  taste,  soon  ran  into  all  the  excesses  of  the  capital, 
in  that  most  licentious  period.  It  is  said  that,  in  the 
course  of  his  wild  career,  he  had  an  intrigue  with 
a  lady  of  quality,  a  favorite  of  the  Regent,  that  he 
was  surprised  by  that  Prince  in  one  of  his  interviews, 
that  sharp  words  passed  between  them ;  and  that  the 
jealousy  and  vengeance  thus  awakened,  ended  only 
with  his  life. 

About  this  time,  the  famous  Mississippi  scheme  of 
Law  was  at  its  height,  or  rather  it  began  to  threaten 
that  disastrous  catastrophe  which  convulsed  the  whole 
financial  world.  Every  effort  was  making  to  keep  the 
bubble  inflated.  The  vagrant  population  of  France 
was  swept  off  from  the  streets  at  night,  and  conveyed 
to  Havre  de  Grace,  to  be  shipped  to  the  projected  col 
onies;  even  laboring  people  and  mechanics  were  thus 
crimped  and  spirited  away.  As  Count  Antoine  was  in 
the  habit  of  sallying  forth  at  night,  in  disguise,  in  pur 
suit  of  his  pleasures,  he  came  near  being  carried  off  by 
a  gang  of  crimps;  it  seemed,  in  fact,  as  if  they  had 
been  lying  in  wait  for  him,  as  he  had  experienced  very 
rough  treatment  at  their  hands.  Complaint  was  made 
of  his  case  by  his  relation,  the  Marquis  de  Crequi,  who 
took  much  interest  in  the  youth;  but  the  Marquis  re 
ceived  mysterious  intimations  not  to  interfere  in  the 


THE  COUNT  VAN  HORN  275 

matter,  but  to  advise  the  Count  to  quit  Paris  immedi 
ately:  "If  he  lingers,  he  is  lost!"  This  has  been 
cited  as  a  proof  that  vengeance  was  dogging  at  the 
heels  of  the  unfortunate  youth,  and  only  watching  for 
an  opportunity  to  destroy  him. 

Such  opportunity  occurred  but  too  soon.  Among 
the  loose  companions  with  whom  the  Count  had  become 
intimate,  were  two  who  lodged  in  the  same  hotel  with 
him.  One  was  a  youth  only  twenty  years  of  age,  who 
passed  himself  off  as  the  Chevalier  d'Etampes,  but 
whose  real  name  was  Lestang,  the  prodigal  son  of  a 
Flemish  banker.  The  other,  named  Laurent  de  Mille, 
a  Piedmontese,  was  a  cashiered  captain,  and  at  the 
time  an  esquire  in  the  service  of  the  dissolute  Princess 
de  Carignan,  who  kept  gambling-tables  in  her  palace. 
It  is  probable  that  gambling  propensities  had  brought 
these  young  men  together,  and  that  their  losses  had 
driven  them  to  desperate  measures;  certain  it  is,  that 
all  Paris  was  suddenly  astounded  by  a  murder  which 
they  were  said  to  have  committed.  What  made  the 
crime  more  startling,  was,  that  it  seemed  connected 
with  the  great  Mississippi  scheme,  at  that  time  the 
fruitful  source  of  all  kinds  of  panics  and  agitations. 
A  Jew,  a  stock-broker,  who  dealt  largely  in  shares  of 
the  bank  of  Law,  founded  on  the  Mississippi  scheme, 
was  the  victim.  The  story  of  his  death  is  variously 
related.  The  darkest  account  states,  that  the  Jew 
was  decoyed  by  these  young  men  into  an  obscure  tav 
ern,  under  pretext  of  negotiating  with  him  for  bank 
shares,  to  the  amount  of  one  hundred  thousand  crowns, 
which  he  had  with  him  in  his  pocket-book.  Lestang 
kept  watch  upon  the  stairs.  The  Count  and  De  Mille 
entered  with  the  Jew  into  a  chamber.  In  a  little 
while  there  were  heard  cries  and  struggles  from  within. 
A  waiter  passing  by  the  room,  looked  in,  and  seeing 
the  Jew  weltering  in  his  blood,  shut  the  door  again, 
double-locked  it,  and  alarmed  the  house.  Lestang 


276  THE  COUNT  VAN  HORN 

rushed  down  stairs,  made  his  way  to  the  hotel,  secured 
his  most  portable  effects,  and  fled  the  country.  The 
Count  and  De  Mille  endeavored  to  escape  by  the 
window,  but  were  both  taken,  and  conducted  to 
prison. 

A  circumstance  which  occurs  in  this  part  of  the 
Count's  story,  seems  to  point  him  out  as  a  fated  man. 
His  mother,  and  his  brother,  the  Prince  Van  Horn,  had 
received  intelligence  some  time  before  at  Baussigny,  of 
the  dissolute  life  the  Count  was  leading  at  Paris,  and 
of  his  losses  at  play.  They  dispatched  a  gentleman  of 
the  Prince's  household  to  Paris,  to  pay  the  debts  of  the 
Count,  and  persuade  him  to  return  to  Flanders;  or,  if 
he  should  refuse,  to  obtain  an  order  from  the  Regent 
for  him  to  quit  the  capital.  Unfortunately  the  gentle 
man  did  not  arrive  at  Paris  until  the  day  after  the 
murder. 

The  news  of  the  Count's  arrest  and  imprisonment, 
on  a  charge  of  murder,  caused  a  violent  sensation 
among  the  high  aristocracy.  All  those  connected  with 
him,  who  had  treated  him  hitherto  with  indifference, 
found  their  dignity  deeply  involved  in  the  question  of 
his  guilt  or  innocence.  A  general  convocation  was  held 
at  the  hotel  of  the  Marquis  de  Crequi,  of  all  the  rela 
tives  and  allies  of  the  house  of  Horn.  It  was  an  assem 
blage  of  the  most  proud  and  aristocratic  personages  of 
Paris.  Inquiries  were  made  into  the  circumstances  of 
the  affair.  It  was  ascertained,  beyond  a  doubt,  that 
the  Jew  was  dead,  and  that  he  had  been  killed  by  several 
stabs  of  a  poniard.  In  escaping  by  the  window,  it  was 
said  that  the  Count  had  fallen,  and  been  immediately 
taken ;  but  that  De  Mille  had  fled  through  the  streets, 
pursued  by  the  populace,  and  had  been  arrested  at  some 
distance  from  the  scene  of  the  murder ;  that  the  Count 
had  declared  himself  innocent  of  the  death  of  the  Jew, 
and  that  he  had  risked  his  own  life  in  endeavoring  to 
protect  him ;  but  that  De  Mille,  on  being  brought  back 


THE  COUNT  VAN  HORN  277 

to  the  tavern,  confessed  to  a  plot  to  murder  the  broker, 
and  rob  him  of  his  pocket-book,  and  inculpated  the 
Count  in  the  crime. 

Another  version  of  the  story  was,  that  the  Count 
Van  Horn  had  deposited  with  the  broker  bank  shares 
to  the  amount  of  eighty-eight  thousand  livres ;  that  he 
had  sought  him  in  this  tavern,  which  was  one  of  his 
resorts,  and  had  demanded  the  shares;  that  the  Jew 
had  denied  the  deposit;  that  a  quarrel  had  ensued,  in 
the  course  of  which  the  Jew  struck  the  Count  in  the 
face;  that  the  latter,  transported  with  rage,  had 
snatched  up  a  knife  from  a  table  and  wounded  the  Jew 
in  the  shoulder;  and  that  thereupon  De  Mille,  who  was 
present,  and  who  had  likewise  been  defrauded  by  the 
broker,  fell  on  him,  and  despatched  him  with  blows  of 
a  poniard,  and  seized  upon  his  pocket-book;  that  he 
had  offered  to  divide  the  contents  of  the  latter  with  the 
Count,  pro  rata,  of  what  the  usurer  had  defrauded 
them ;  that  the  latter  had  refused  the  proposition  with 
disdain;  and  that,  at  a  noise  of  persons  approaching, 
both  had  attempted  to  escape  from  the  premises,  but 
had  been  taken. 

Regard  the  story  in  any  way  they  might,  appear 
ances  were  terribly  against  the  Count,  and  the  noble 
assemblage  was  in  great  consternation.  What  was  to 
be  done  to  ward  off  so  foul  a  disgrace  and  to  save  their 
illustrious  escutcheons  from  this  murderous  stain  of 
blood?  Their  first  attempt  was  to  prevent  the  affair 
from  going  to  trial,  and  their  relative  from  being 
dragged  before  a  criminal  tribunal,  on  so  horrible  and 
degrading  a  charge.  They  applied,  therefore,  to  the 
Regent,  to  intervene  his  power,  to  treat  the  Count  as 
having  acted  under  an  access  of  his  mental  malady,  and 
to  shut  him  up  in  a  madhouse.  The  Regent  was  deaf 
to  their  solicitations.  He  replied,  coldly,  that  if  the 
Count  was  a  madman,  one  could  not  get  rid  too  quickly 
of  madmen  who  were  furious  in  their  insanity.  The 


278  THE  COUNT  VAN  HORN 

crime  was  too  public  and  atrocious  to  be  hushed  up, 
or  slurred  over;  justice  must  take  its  course. 

Seeing  there  was  no  avoiding  the  humiliating  scene 
of  a  public  trial,  the  noble  relatives  of  the  Count  en 
deavored  to  predispose  the  minds  of  the  magistrates 
before  whom  he  was  to  be  arraigned.  They  accord 
ingly  made  urgent  and  eloquent  representations  of  the 
high  descent,  and  noble  and  powerful  connections  of 
the  Count ;  set  forth  the  circumstances  of  his  early  his 
tory,  his  mental  malady,  the  nervous  irritability  to 
which  he  was  subject,  and  his  extreme  sensitiveness  to 
insult  or  contradiction.  By  these  means  they  sought 
to  prepare  the  judges  to  interpret  everything  in  favor 
of  the  Count;  and,  even  if  it  should  prove  that  he  had 
inflicted  the  mortal  blow  on  the  usurer,  to  attribute  it  to 
access  of  insanity  provoked  by  insult. 

To  give  full  effect  to  these  representations,  the  noble 
conclave  determined  to  bring  upon  the  judges  the  daz 
zling  rays  of  the  whole  assembled  aristocracy.  Ac 
cordingly,  on  the  day  that  the  trial  took  place,  the 
relations  of  the  Count,  to  the  number  of  fifty-seven 
persons,  of  both  sexes  and  of  the  highest  rank,  repaired 
in  a  body  to  the  Palace  of  Justice,  and  took  their  sta 
tions  in  a  long  corridor  which  led  to  the  court-room. 
Here,  as  the  judges  entered,  they  had  to  pass  in  review 
this  array  of  lofty  and  noble  personages,  who  saluted 
them  mournfully  and  significantly  as  they  passed. 
Any  one  conversant  with  the  stately  pride  and  jealous 
dignity  of  the  French  noblesse  of  that  day,  may 
imagine  the  extreme  state  of  sensitiveness  that  pro 
duced  this  self-abasement.  It  was  confidently  pre 
sumed,  however,  by  the  noble  suppliants,  that  having 
once  brought  themselves  to  this  measure,  their  influence 
over  the  tribunal  would  be  irresistible.  There  was  one 
lady  present,  however,  Madame  de  Beauffremont,  who 
was  affected  with  the  Scottish  gift  of  second  sight,  and 
related  such  dismal  and  sinister  apparitions  as  passing 


THE  COUNT  VAN  HORN  279 

before  her  eyes,  that  many  of  her  female  companions 
were  rilled  with  doleful  presentiments. 

Unfortunately  for  the  Count,  there  was  another 
interest  at  work,  more  powerful  even  than  the  high 
aristocracy.  The  infamous  but  all-potent  Abbe  Dubois, 
the  grand  favorite  and  bosom  counsellor  of  the  Regent, 
was  deeply  interested  in  the  scheme  of  Law  and  the 
prosperity  of  his  bank,  and  of  course  in  the  security 
of  the  stock-brokers.  Indeed,  the  Regent  himself  is 
said  to  have  dipped  deep  in  the  Mississippi  scheme. 
Dubois  and  Law,  therefore,  exerted  their  influence 
to  the  utmost  to  have  the  tragic  affair  pushed  to  the 
extremity  of  the  law,  and  the  murderer  of  the  broker 
punished  in  the  most  signal  and  appalling  manner. 
Certain  it  is,  the  trial  was  neither  long  nor  intricate. 
The  Count  and  his  fellow-prisoner  were  equally  in 
culpated  in  the  crime,  and  both  were  condemned  to 
a  death  the  most  horrible  and  ignominious  —  to  be 
broken  alive  on  the  wheel ! 

As  soon  as  the  sentence  of  the  court  was  made 
public,  all  the  nobility,  in  any  degree  related  to  the 
house  of  Van  Horn,  went  into  mourning.  Another 
grand  aristocratical  assemblage  was  held,  and  a  peti 
tion  to  the  Regent,  on  behalf  of  the  Count,  was  drawn 
out  and  left  with  the  Marquis  de  Crequi  for  sig 
nature.  This  petition  set  forth  the  previous  insanity 
of  the  Count,  and  showed  that  it  was  an  hereditary 
malady  in  his  family.  It  stated  various  circumstances 
in  mitigation  of  his  offence,  and  implored  that  his  sen 
tence  might  be  commuted  to  perpetual  imprisonment. 

Upward  of  fifty  names  of  the  highest  nobility,  be 
ginning  with  the  Prince  de  Ligne,  and  including  cardi 
nals,  archbishops,  dukes,  marquises,  etc.,  together  with 
ladies  of  equal  rank,  were  signed  to  this  petition.  By 
one  of  the  caprices  of  human  pride  and  vanity,  it 
became  an  object  of  ambition  to  get  enrolled  among 
the  illustrious  suppliants ;  a  kind  of  testimonial  of  noble 


28o  THE  COUNT  VAN  HORN 

blood,  to  prove  relationship  to  a  murderer!  The  Mar 
quis  de  Crequi  was  absolutely  besieged  by  applicants 
to  sign,  and  had  to  refer  their  claims  to  this  singular 
honor  to  the  Prince  de  Ligne,  the  grandfather  of  the 
Count.  Many  who  were  excluded  were  highly  in 
censed,  and  numerous  feuds  took  place.  Nay,  the 
affronts  thus  given  to  the  morbid  pride  of  some  aristo- 
cratical  families,  passed  from  generation  to  generation ; 
for,  fifty  years  afterward,  the  Duchess  of  Mazarin 
complained  of  a  slight  which  her  father  had  re 
ceived  from  the  Marquis  de  Crequi,  which  proved 
to  be  something  connected  with  the  signature  of  this 
petition. 

This  important  document  being  completed,  the  illus 
trious  body  of  petitioners,  male  and  female,  on  Satur 
day  evening,  the  eve  of  Palm  Sunday,  repaired  to  the 
Palais  Royal,  the  residence  of  the  Regent,  and  were 
ushered  with  great  ceremony,  but  profound  silence, 
into  his  hall  of  council.  They  had  appointed  four  of 
their  number  as  deputies  to  present  the  petition,  viz. : 
the  Cardinal  de  Rohan,  the  Duke  de  Havre,  the  Prince 
de  Ligne,  and  the  Marquis  de  Crequi.  After  a  little 
while,  the  deputies  were  summoned  to  the  cabinet  of  the 
Regent.  They  entered,  leaving  the  assembled  petitioners 
in  a  state  of  the  greatest  anxiety.  As  time  slowly 
wore  away,  and  the  evening  advanced,  the  gloom  of 
the  company  increased.  Several  of  the  ladies  prayed 
devoutly;  the  good  Princess  of  Armagnac  told  her 
beads. 

The  petition  was  received  by  the  Regent  with  a 
most  unpropitious  aspect.  "  In  asking  the  pardon  of 
the  criminal,"  said  he,  "  you  display  more  zeal  for  the 
house  of  Van  Horn  than  for  the  service  of  the  king." 
The  noble  deputies  enforced  the  petition  by  every  ar 
gument  in  their  power.  They  supplicated  the  Regent 
to  consider  that  the  infamous  punishment  in  question 
would  reach  not  merely  the  person  of  the  condemned, 


THE  COUNT  VAN  HORN  281 

not  merely  the  house  of  Van  Horn,  but  also  the  gene 
alogies  of  princely  and  illustrious  families,  in  whose 
armorial  bearings,  might  be  found  quarterings  of  this 
dishonored  name. 

"  Gentlemen,"  replied  the  Regent,  "  it  appears  to 
me  the  disgrace  consists  in  the  crime,  rather  than  in  the 
punishment." 

The  Prince  de  Ligne  spoke  with  warmth :  "  I  have 
in  my  genealogical  standard,"  said  he,  "  four  escutch 
eons  of  Van  Horn,  and  of  course  have  four  ancestors 
of  that  house.  I  must  have  them  erased  and  effaced, 
and  there  would  be  so  many  blank  spaces,  like  holes, 
in  my  heraldic  ensigns.  There  is  not  a  sovereign 
family  which  would  not  suffer  through  the  rigor  of 
your  Royal  Highness;  nay,  all  the  world  knows  that 
in  the  thirty-two  quarterings  of  Madame,  your  mother, 
there  is  an  escutcheon  of  Van  Horn/' 

"  Very  well,"  replied  the  Regent,  "  I  will  share  the 
disgrace  with  you,  gentlemen." 

Seeing  that  a  pardon  could  not  be  obtained,  the 
Cardinal  de  Rohan  and  the  Marquis  de  Crequi  left 
the  cabinet;  but  the  Prince  de  Ligne  and  the  Duke 
de  Havre  remained  behind.  The  honor  of  their 
houses,,  more  than  the  life  of  the  unhappy  Count,  was 
the  great  object  of  their  solicitude.  They  now  en 
deavored  to  obtain  a  minor  grace.  They  represented, 
that  in  the  Netherlands  and  in  Germany,  there  was  an 
important  difference  in  the  public  mind  as  to  the  mode 
of  inflicting  the  punishment  of  death  upon  persons  of 
quality.  That  decapitation  had  no  influence  on  the 
fortunes  of  the  family  of  the  executed,  but  that  the 
punishment  of  the  wheel  was  such  an  infamy,  that 
the  uncles,  aunts,  brothers,  and  sisters,  of  the  criminal, 
and  his  whole  family,  for  three  succeeding  generations, 
were  excluded  from  all  noble  chapters,  princely  abbeys, 
sovereign  bishoprics,  and  even  Teutonic  commanderies 
of  the  Order  of  Malta.  They  showed  how  this  would 


282  THE  COUNT  VAN  HORN 

operate  immediately  upon  the  fortunes  of  a  sister  of  the 
Count,  who  was  on  the  point  of  being  received  as  a 
canoness  into  one  of  the  noble  chapters. 

While  this  scene  was  going  on  in  the  cabinet  of  the 
Regent,  the  illustrious  assemblage  of  petitioners  re 
mained  in  the  hall  of  council,  in  the  most  gloomy 
state  of  suspense.  The  reentrance  from  the  cabinet 
of  the  Cardinal  de  Rohan  and  the  Marquis  de  Crequi, 
with  pale  downcast  countenances,  had  struck  a  chill 
into  every  heart.  Still  they  lingered  until  near  mid 
night,  to  learn  the  result  of  the  after  application.  At 
length  the  cabinet  conference  was  at  an  end.  The  Re 
gent  came  forth  and  saluted  the  high  personages  of 
the  assemblage  in  a  courtly  manner.  One  old  lady  of 
quality,  Madame  de  Guyon,  whom  he  had  known  in 
his  infancy,  he  kissed  on  the  cheek,  calling  her  his 
"  good  aunt."  He  made  a  most  ceremonious  salutation 
to  the  stately  Marchioness  de  Crequi,  telling  her  he 
was  charmed  to  see  her  at  the  Palais  Royal ;  "  a  com 
pliment  very  ill-timed/'  said  the  Marchioness,  "  con 
sidering  the  circumstance  which  brought  me  there." 
He  then  conducted  the  ladies  to  the  door  of  the  sec 
ond  saloon,  and  there  dismissed  them  with  the  most 
ceremonious  politeness. 

The  application  of  the  Prince  de  Ligne  and  the 
Duke  de  Havre,  for  a  change  of  the  mode  of  punish 
ment,  had,  after  much  difficulty,  been  successful.  The 
Regent  had  promised  solemnly  to  send  a  letter  of  com 
mutation  to  the  attorney-general  on  Holy  Monday, 
the  25th  of  March,  at  five  o'clock  in  the  morning. 
According  to  the  same  promise,  a  scaffold  would  be 
arranged  in  the  cloister  of  the  Conciergerie,  or  prison, 
where  the  Count  would  be  beheaded  on  the  same  morn 
ing,  immediately  after  having  received  absolution.  This 
mitigation  of  the  form  of  punishment  gave  but  little 
consolation  to  the  great  body  of  petitioners,  who  had 
been  anxious  for  the  pardon  of  the  youth;  it  was 


THE  COUNT  VAN  HORN  283 

looked  upon  as  all  important,  however,  by  the  Prince 
de  Ligne,  who,  as  has  been  before  observed,  was 
exquisitely  alive  to  the  dignity  of  his  family. 

The  Bishop  of  Bayeux  and  the  Marquis  de  Crequi 
visited  the  unfortunate  youth  in  prison.  He  had  just 
received  the  communion  in  the  chapel  of  the  Concier- 
gerie,  and  was  kneeling  before  the  altar,  listening  to  a 
mass  for  the  dead,  which  was  performed  at  his  request. 
He  protested  his  innocence  of  any  intention  to  murder 
the  Jew,  but  did  not  deign  to  allude  to  the  accusation 
of  robbery.  He  made  the  Bishop  and  the  Marquis 
promise  to  see  his  brother  the  Prince,  and  inform  him 
of  this  his  dying  asseveration. 

Two  other  of  his  relations,  the  Prince  Rebecq- 
Montmorency  and  the  Marshal  Van  Isenghien,  visited 
him  secretly,  and  offered  him  poison,  as  a  means  of 
evading  the  disgrace  of  a  public  execution.  On  his 
refusing  to  take  it,  they  left  him  with  high  indigna 
tion.  "  Miserable  man!  "  said  they,  "  you  are  fit  only 
to  perish  by  the  hand  of  the  executioner!  " 

The  Marquis  de  Crequi  sought  the  executioner  of 
Paris,  to  bespeak  an  easy  and  decent  death  for  the 
unfortunate  youth.  "  Do  not  make  him  suffer,"  said 
he ;  "  uncover  no  part  of  him  but  the  neck,  and  have 
his  body  placed  in  a  coffin  before  you  deliver  it  to  his 
family."  The  executioner  promised  all  that  was  re 
quested,  but  declined  a  rouleau  of  a  hundred  louis-d'ors 
which  the  Marquis  would  have  put  into  his  hand.  "  I 
am  paid  by  the  King  for  fulfilling  my  office,"  said  he ; 
and  added,  that  he  had  already  refused  a  like  sum, 
offered  by  another  relation  of  the  Marquis. 

The  Marquis  de  Crequi  returned  home  in  a  state 
of  deep  affliction.  There  he  found  a  letter  from  the 
Duke  de  St.  Simon,  the  familiar  friend  of  the  Regent, 
repeating  the  promise  of  that  Prince,  that  the  punish 
ment  of  the  wheel  should  be  commuted  to  decapitation. 
"  Imagine,"  says  the  Marchioness  de  Crequi,  who  in 


284  THE  COUNT  VAN  HORN 

her  memoirs  gives  a  detailed  account  of  this  affair, 
"  imagine  what  we  experienced,  and  what  was  our 
astonishment,  our  grief,  and  indignation,  when,  on 
Tuesday  the  26th  of  March,  an  hour  after  midday, 
word  was  brought  us  that  the  Count  Van  Horn  had 
been  exposed  on  the  wheel  in  the  Place  de  Greve,  since 
half -past  six  in  the  morning,  on  the  same  scaffold  with 
the  Piedmontese,  De  Mille,  and  that  he  had  been 
tortured  previous  to  execution !  " 

One  more  scene  of  aristocratic  pride  closed  this 
tragic  story.  The  Marquis  de  Crequi,  on  receiving 
this  astounding  news,  immediately  arrayed  himself  in 
the  uniform  of  a  general  officer,  with  his  cordon  of 
nobility  on  the  coat.  He  ordered  six  valets  to  attend 
him  in  grand  livery,  and  two  of  his  carriages,  each 
with  six  horses,  to  be  brought  forth.  In  this  sumptu 
ous  state  he  set  off  for  the  Place  de  Greve,  where  he 
had  been  preceded  by  the  Princes  de  Ligne,  de  Rohan, 
de  Croiiy,  and  the  Duke  de  Havre. 

The  Count  Van  Horn  was  already  dead,  and  it  was 
believed  that  the  executioner  had  had  the  charity  to 
give  him  the  coup  de  grace,  or  "  death-blow,"  at  eight 
o'clock  in  the  morning.  At  five  o'clock  in  the  evening, 
when  the  Judge  Commissary  left  his  post  at  the  Hotel 
de  Ville,  these  noblemen,  with  their  own  hands,  aided 
to  detach  the  mutilated  remains  of  their  relation;  the 
Marquis  de  Crequi  placed  them  in  one  of  his  carriages, 
and  bore  them  off  to  his  hotel,  to  receive  the  last  sad 
obsequies. 

The  conduct  of  the  Regent  in  this  affair  excited  gen 
eral  indignation.  His  needless  severity  was  attributed 
by  some  to  vindictive  jealousy;  by  others  to  the  per 
severing  machinations  of  Law  and  the  Abbe  Dubois. 
The  house  of  Van  Horn,  and  the  high  nobility  of 
Flanders  and  Germany,  considered  themselves  fla 
grantly  outraged;  many  schemes  of  vengeance  were 
talked  of,  and  a  hatred  engendered  against  the  Regent 


DON  JUAN:  A  SPECTRAL  RESEARCH  285 

that  followed  him  through  life,  and  was  wreaked  with 
bitterness  upon  his  memory  after  his  death. 

The  following  letter  is  said  to  have  been  written 
to  the  Regent  by  the  Prince  Van  Horn,  to  whom  the 
former  had  adjudged  the  confiscated  effects  of  the 
Count :  — 

"  I  do  not  complain,  sir,  of  the  death  of  my  brother, 
but  I  complain  that  your  Royal  Highness  has  violated 
in  his  person  the  rights  of  the  kingdom,  the  nobility, 
and  the  nation.  I  thank  you  for  the  confiscation  of  his 
effects;  but  I  should  think  myself  as  much  disgraced 
as  he,  should  I  accept  any  favor  at  your  hands.  / 
hope  that  God  and  the  King  may  render  to  you  as 
strict  justice  as  you  have  rendered  to  my  unfortunate 
brother." 


DON  JUAN 

A    SPECTRAL   RESEARCH 

I  have  heard  of  spirits  walking  with  aerial  bodies,  and  have 
been  wondered  at  by  others ;  but  I  must  only  wonder  at  myself, 
for,  if  they  be  not  mad,  I  'me  come  to  my  own  buriall. 

SHIRLEY'S  Witty  Fairie  One 

EVERYBODY  has  heard  of  the  fate  of  Don  Juan,  the 
famous  libertine  of  Seville,  who,  for  his  sins  against 
the  fair  sex  and  other  minor  peccadilloes,  was  hurried 
away  to  the  infernal  regions.  His  story  has  been  illus 
trated  in  play,  in  pantomime,  and  farce,  on  every  stage 
in  Christendom,  until  at  length  it  has  been  rendered 
the  theme  of  the  opera  of  operas,  and  embalmed  to 
endless  duration  in  the  glorious  music  of  Mozart.  I 
well  recollect  the  effect  of  this  story  upon  my  feelings 
in  my  boyish  days,  though  represented  in  grotesque 
pantomime;  the  awe  with  which  I  contemplated  the 
monumental  statue  on  horseback  of  the  murdered  com- 


286  DON  JUAN:  A  SPECTRAL  RESEARCH 

mander,  gleaming  by  pale  moonlight  in  the  convent 
cemetery;  how  my  heart  quaked  as  he  bowed  his 
marble  head,  and  accepted  the  impious  invitation  of 
Don  Juan ;  how  each  footfall  of  the  statue  smote  upon 
my  heart,  as  I  heard  it  approach,  step  by  step,  through 
the  echoing  corridor,  and  beheld  it  enter,  and  advance, 
a  moving  figure  of  stone,  to  the  supper-table !  But  then 
the  convivial  scene  in  the  charnel-house,  where  Don 
Juan  returned  the  visit  of  the  statue,  was  offered 
a  banquet  of  sculls  and  bones,  and  on  refusing  to  par 
take,  was  hurled  into  a  yawning  gulf  under  a  tre 
mendous  shower  of  fire!  These  were  accumulated 
horrors  enough  to  shake  the  nerves  of  the  most 
pantomime-loving  schoolboy.  Many  have  supposed  the 
story  of  Don  Juan  a  mere  fable.  I  myself  thought 
so  once;  but  "seeing  is  believing."  I  have  since  be 
held  the  very  scene  where  it  took  place,  and  now  to  in 
dulge  any  doubt  on  the  subject,  would  be  preposterous. 

I  was  one  night  perambulating  the  streets  of  Seville, 
in  company  with  a  Spanish  friend,  a  curious  investi 
gator  of  the  popular  traditions  and  other  good-for- 
nothing  lore  of  the  city,  and  who  was  kind  enough  to 
imagine  he  had  met,  in  me,  with  a  congenial  spirit. 
In  the  course  of  our  rambles,  we  were  passing  by  a 
heavy  dark  gateway,  opening  into  the  court-yard  of  a 
convent,  when  he  laid  his  hand  upon  my  arm : 
"  Stop!  "  said  he;  "  this  is  the  convent  of  San  Fran 
cisco;  there  is  a  story  connected  with  it,  which  I  am 
sure  must  be  known  to  you.  You  cannot  but  have 
heard  of  Don  Juan  and  the  marble  statue." 

"  Undoubtedly,"  replied  I ;  "it  has  been  familiar  to 
me  from  childhood." 

"  Well,  then,  it  was  in  the  cemetery  of  this  very  con 
vent  that  the  events  took  place." 

"  Why,  you  do  not  mean  to  say  that  the  story  is 
founded  on  fact?" 

"  Undoubtedly  it  is.     The  circumstances  of  the  case 


DON  JUAN:  A  SPECTRAL  RESEARCH    287 

are  said  to  have  occurred  during  the  reign  of  Alfonso 
XL  Don  Juan  was  of  the  noble  family  of  Tenorio,  one 
of  the  most  illustrious  houses  of  Andalusia.  His 
father,  Don  Diego  Tenorio,  was  a  favorite  of  the  king, 
and  his  family  ranked  among  the  ve'mtecuatros,  or 
magistrates,  of  the  city.  Presuming  on  his  high  de 
scent  and  powerful  connections,  Don  Juan  set  no 
bounds  to  his  excesses :  no  female,  high  or  low,  was 
sacred  from  his  pursuit;  and  he  soon  became  the 
scandal  of  Seville.  One  of  his  most  daring  outrages 
was,  to  penetrate  by  night  into  the  palace  of  Don  Gon- 
zalo  de  Ulloa,  Commander  of  the  Order  of  Calatrava, 
and  attempt  to  carry  off  his  daughter.  The  household 
was  alarmed;  a  scuffle  in  the  dark  took  place;  Don 
Juan  escaped,  but  the  unfortunate  commander  was 
found  weltering  in  his  blood,  and  expired  without  being 
able  to  name  his  murderer.  Suspicions  attached  to 
Don  Juan ;  he  did  not  stop  to  meet  the  investigations  of 
justice  and  the  vengeance  of  the  powerful  family  of 
Ulloa,  but  fled  from  Seville,  and  took  refuge  with  his 
uncle,  Don  Pedro  Tenorio,  at  that  time  ambassador  at 
the  court  of  Naples.  Here  he  remained  until  the  agita 
tion  occasioned  by  the  murder  of  Don  Gonzalo  had 
time  to  subside ;  and  the  scandal  which  the  affair  might 
cause  to  both  the  families  of  Ulloa  and  Tenorio  had 
induced  them  to  hush  it  up.  Don  Juan,  however,  con 
tinued  his  libertine  career  at  Naples,  until  at  length  his 
excesses  forfeited  the  protection  of  his  uncle  the  am 
bassador,  and  obliged  him  again  to  flee.  He  had  made 
his  way  back  to  Seville,  trusting  that  his  past  misdeeds 
were  forgotten,  or  rather  trusting  to  his  dare-devil 
spirit  and  the  power  of  his  family,  to  carry  him  through 
all  difficulties. 

"  It  was  shortly  after  his  return,  and  while  in  the 
height  of  his  arrogance,  that  on  visiting  this  very  con 
vent  of  Francisco,  he  beheld  on  a  monument  the 
equestrian  statue  of  the  murdered  commander,  who 


288  DON  JUAN:  A  SPECTRAL  RESEARCH 

had  been  buried  within  the  walls  of  this  sacred  edifice, 
where  the  family  of  Ulloa  had  a  chapel.  It  was  on  this 
occasion  that  Don  Juan,  in  a  moment  of  impious  levity, 
invited  the  statue  to  the  banquet,  the  awful  catastro 
phe  of  which  has  given  such  celebrity  to  his  story." 

"  And  pray  how  much  of  this  story,"  said  I,  "  is  be 
lieved  in  Seville?  " 

"  The  whole  of  it  by  the  populace,  with  whom  it  has 
been  a  favorite  tradition  since  time  immemorial,  and 
who  crowd  to  the  theatres  to  see  it  represented  in  dra 
mas  written  long  since  by  Tyrso  de  Molina,  and  another 
of  our  popular  writers.  Many  in  our  higher  ranks 
also,  accustomed  from  childhood  to  this  story,  would 
feel  somewhat  indignant  at  hearing  it  treated  with  con 
tempt.  An  attempt  has  been  made  to  explain  the  whole, 
by  asserting  that,  to  put  an  end  to  the  extravagances 
of  Don  Juan,  and  to  pacify  the  family  of  Ulloa,  with 
out  exposing  the  delinquent  to  the  degrading  penalties 
of  justice,  he  was  decoyed  into  this  convent  under  false 
pretext,  and  either  plunged  into  a  perpetual  dungeon, 
or  privately  hurried  out  of  existence;  while  the  story 
of  the  statue  was  circulated  by  the  monks,  to  account 
for  his  sudden  disappearance.  The  populace,  however, 
are  not  to  be  cajoled  out  of  a  ghost-story  by  any  of 
these  plausible  explanations ;  and  the  marble  statue  still 
strides  the  stage,  and  Don  Juan  is  still  plunged  into  the 
infernal  regions,  as  an  awful  warning  to  all  rake-helly 
youngsters,  in  like  case  offending." 

While  my  companion  was  relating  these  anecdotes, 
we  had  traversed  the  exterior  court-yard  of  the  con 
vent,  and  made  our  way  into  a  great  interior  court, 
partly  surrounded  by  cloisters  and  dormitories,  partly 
by  chapels,  and  having  a  large  fountain  in  the  centre. 
The  pile  had  evidently  once  been  extensive  and  magnifi 
cent  ;  but  it  was  for  the  greater  part  in  ruins.  By  the 
light  of  the  stars,  and  of  twinkling  lamps  placed  here 
and  there  in  the  chapels  and  corridors,  I  could  see  that 


DON  JUAN:  A  SPECTRAL  RESEARCH  289 

many  of  the  columns  and  arches  were  broken ;  the  walls 
were  rent  and  riven;  while  burnt  beams  and  rafters 
showed  the  destructive  effects  of  fire.  The  whole  place 
had  a  desolate  air;  the  night  breeze  rustled  through 
grass  and  weeds  flaunting  out  of  the  crevices  of  the 
walls,  or  from  the  shattered  columns;  the  bat  flitted 
about  the  vaulted  pasages,  and  the  owl  hooted  from  the 
ruined  belfry.  Never  was  any  scene  more  completely 
fitted  for  a  ghost-story. 

While  I  was  indulging  in  picturings  of  the  fancy, 
proper  to  such  a  place,  the  deep  chant  of  the  monks 
from  the  convent  church  came  swelling  upon  the  ear. 
"  It  is  the  vesper  service,"  said  my  companion;  "  fol 
low  me." 

Leading  the  way  across  the  court  of  the  cloisters, 
and  through  one  or  two  ruined  passages,  he  reached 
the  portal  of  the  church,  and  pushing  open  a  wicket, 
cut  in  the  folding-doors,  we  found  ourselves  in  the 
deep  arched  vestibule  of  the  sacred  edifice.  To  our 
left  was  the  choir,  forming  one  end  of  the  church,  and 
having  a  low  vaulted  ceiling,  which  gave  it  the  look  of 
a  cavern.  About  this  were  ranged  the  monks,  seated 
on  stools,  and  chanting  from  immense  books  placed  on 
music-stands,  and  having  the  notes  scored  in  such 
gigantic  characters  as  to  be  legible  from  every  part  of 
the  choir.  A  few  lights  on  these  music-stands  dimly 
illumined  the  choir,  gleamed  on  the  shaven  heads  of 
the  monks,  and  threw  their  shadows  on  the  walls.  They 
were  gross,  blue-bearded,  bullet-headed  men,  with  bass 
voices,  of  deep  metallic  tone,  that  reverberated  out  of 
the  cavernous  choir. 

To  our  right  extended  the  great  body  of  the  church. 
It  was  spacious  and  lofty ;  some  of  the  side  chapels  had 
gilded  grates,  and  were  decorated  with  images  and 
paintings,  representing  the  sufferings  of  our  Saviour. 
Aloft  was  a  great  painting  by  Murillo,  but  too  much  in 
the  dark  to  be  distinguished.  The  gloom  of  the  whole 

19 


290   DON  JUAN:  A  SPECTRAL  RESEARCH 

church  was  but  faintly  relieved  by  the  reflected  light 
from  the  choir,  and  the  glimmering  here  and  there  of 
a  votive  lamp  before  the  shrine  of  the  saint. 

As  my  eye  roamed  about  the  shadowy  pile,  it  was 
struck  with  the  dimly  seen  figure  of  a  man  on  horse 
back,  near  a  distant  altar.  I  touched  my  companion, 
and  pointed  to  it :  "  The  spectre  statue !  "  said  I. 

"  No,"  replied  he ;  "  it  is  the  statue  of  the  blessed 
St.  lago;  the  statue  of  the  commander  was  in  the 
cemetery  of  the  convent,  and  was  destroyed  at  the  time 
of  the  conflagration.  But,"  added  he,  "  as  I  see  you 
take  a  proper  interest  in  these  kind  of  stories,  come 
with  me  to  the  other  end  of  the  church,  where  our 
whisperings  will  not  disturb  these  holy  fathers  at  their 
devotions,  and  I  will  tell  you  another  story,  that  has 
been  current  for  some  generations  in  our  city,  by  which 
you  will  find  that  Don  Juan  is  not  the  only  libertine 
that  has  been  the  object  of  supernatural  castigation  in 
Seville." 

I  accordingly  followed  him  with  noiseless  tread  to 
the  farther  part  of  the  church,  where  we  took  our  seats 
on  the  steps  of  an  altar  opposite  to  the  suspicious-look 
ing  figure  on  horseback,  and  there,  in  a  low  mysterious 
voice,  he  related  to  me  the  following  narrative :  — 

"  There  was  once  in  Seville  a  gay  young  fellow,  Don 
Manuel  de  Manara  by  name,  who,  having  come  to  a 
great  estate  by  the  death  of  his  father,  gave  the  reins 
to  his  passions,  and  plunged  into  all  kinds  of  dissipa 
tion.  Like  Don  Juan,  whom  he  seemed  to  have  taken 
for  a  model,  he  became  famous  for  his  enterprises 
among  the  fair  sex,  and  was  the  cause  of  doors  being 
barred  and  windows  grated  with  more  than  usual  strict 
ness.  All  in  vain.  No  balcony  was  too  high  for  him 
to  scale :  no  bolt  nor  bar  was  proof  against  his  efforts ; 
and  his  very  name  was  a  word  of  terror  to  all  the  jeal 
ous  husbands  and  cautious  fathers  of  Seville.  His  ex- 


DON  JUAN:  A  SPECTRAL  RESEARCH  291 

ploits  extended  to  country  as  well  as  city;  and  in  the 
village  dependent  on  his  castle,  scarce  a  rural  beauty 
was  safe  from  his  arts  and  enterprises. 

"  As  he  was  one  day  ranging  the  streets  of  Seville, 
with  several  of  his  dissolute  companions,  he  beheld  a 
procession,  about  to  enter  the  gate  of  a  convent.  In 
the  centre  was  a  young  female,  arrayed  in  the  dress 
of  a  bride ;  it  was  a  novice,  who,  having  accomplished 
her  year  of  probation,  was  about  to  take  the  black  veil, 
and  consecrate  herself  to  heaven.  The  companions  of 
Don  Manuel  drew  back,  out  of  respect  to  the  sacred 
pageant;  but  he  pressed  forward,  with  his  usual  im 
petuosity,  to  gain  a  near  view  of  the  novice.  He  al 
most  jostled  her,  in  passing  through  the  portal  of  the 
church,  when,  on  her  turning  round,  he  beheld  the 
countenance  of  a  beautiful  village  girl,  who  had  been 
the  object  of  his  ardent  pursuit,  but  who  had  been 
spirited  secretly  out  of  his  reach  by  her  relatives.  She 
recognized  him  at  the  same  moment,  and  fainted,  but 
was  borne  within  the  grate  of  the  chapel.  It  was  sup 
posed  the  agitation  of  the  ceremony  and  the  heat  of  the 
throng  had  overcome  her.  After  some  time,  the  curtain 
which  hung  within  the  grate  was  drawn  up:  there 
stood  the  novice,  pale  and  trembling,  surrounded  by  the 
abbess  and  the  nuns.  The  ceremony  proceeded;  the 
crown  of  flowers  was  taken  from  her  head,  she  was 
shorn  of  her  silken  tresses,  received  the  black  veil,  and 
went  passively  through  the  remainder  of  the  ceremony. 

"  Don  Manuel  de  Manara,  on  the  contrary,  was 
roused  to  fury  at  the  sight  of  this  sacrifice.  His  pas 
sion,  which  had  almost  faded  away  in  the  absence  of  the 
object,  now  glowed  with  tenfold  ardor,  being  inflamed 
by  the  difficulties  placed  in  his  way,  and  piqued  by  the 
measures  which  had  been  taken  to  defeat  him.  Never 
had  the  object  of  his  pursuit  appeared  so  lovely  and 
desirable  as  when  within  the  grate  of  the  convent ;  and 
he  swore  to  have  her,  in  defiance  of  heaven  and  earth. 


292  DON  JUAN:  A  SPECTRAL  RESEARCH 

By  dint  of  bribing  a  female  servant  of  the  convent,  he 
contrived  to  convey  letters  to  her,  pleading  his  passion 
in  the  most  eloquent  and  seductive  terms.  How  suc 
cessful  they  were,  is  only  matter  of  conjecture;  certain 
it  is,  he  undertook  one  night  to  scale  the  garden-wall 
of  the  convent,  either  to  carry  off  the  nun,  or  gain  ad 
mission  to  her  cell.  Just  as  he  was  mounting  the  wall, 
he  was  suddenly  plucked  back,  and  a  stranger,  muffled 
in  a  cloak,  stood  before  him. 

"  '  Rash  man,  forbear ! '  cried  he :  'is  it  not  enough 
to  have  violated  all  human  ties?  Wouldst  thou  steal 
a  bride  from  heaven ! ' 

"  The  sword  of  Don  Manuel  had  been  drawn  on 
the  instant,  and  furious  at  this  interruption,  he  passed 
it  through  the  body  of  the  stranger,  who  fell  dead  at 
his  feet.  Hearing  approaching  footsteps,  he  fled  the 
fatal  spot,  and  mounting  his  horse,  which  was  at  hand, 
retreated  to  his  estate  in  the  country,  at  no  great  dis 
tance  from  Seville.  Here  he  remained  throughout  the 
next  day,  full  of  horror  and  remorse,  dreading  lest  he 
should  be  known  as  the  murderer  of  the  deceased,  and 
fearing  each  moment  the  arrival  of  the  officers  of 
justice. 

"  The  day  passed,  however,  without  molestation ; 
and,  as  the  evening  advanced,  unable  any  longer  to  en 
dure  this  state  of  uncertainty  and  apprehension,  he 
ventured  back  to  Seville.  Irresistibly  his  footsteps  took 
the  direction  of  the  convent,  but  he  paused  and  hovered 
at  a  distance  from  the  scene  of  blood.  Several  persons 
were  gathered  round  the  place,  one  of  whom  was  busy 
nailing  something  against  the  convent-wall.  After  a 
while  they  dispersed,  and  one  passed  near  to  Don 
Manuel.  The  latter  addressed  him,  with  hesitating 
voice. 

"  '  Sefior,'  said  he,  '  may  I  ask  the  reason  of  yonder 
throng  ? ' 

"  '  A  cavalier/  replied  the  other,  *  has  been  murdered.' 


DON  JUAN:  A  SPECTRAL  RESEARCH  293 

"  '  Murdered ! '  echoed  Don  Manuel ;  '  and  can  you 
tell  me  his  name?  ' 

"  '  Don  Manuel  de  Manara/  replied  the  stranger, 
and  passed  on. 

"  Don  Manuel  was  startled  at  this  mention  of  his 
own  name,  especially  when  applied  to  the  murdered 
man.  He  ventured,  when  it  was  entirely  deserted,  to 
approach  the  fatal  spot.  A  small  cross  had  been  nailed 
against  the  wall,  as  is  customary  in  Spain,  to  mark  the 
place  where  a  murder  has  been  committed;  and  just 
below  it  he  read,  by  the  twinkling  light  of  a  lamp: 
'  Here  was  murdered  Don  Manuel  de  Manara.  Pray 
to  God  for  his  soul ! ' 

"  Still  more  confounded  and  perplexed  by  this  in 
scription,  he  wandered  about  the  streets  until  the  night 
was  far  advanced,  and  all  was  still  and  lonely.  As  he 
entered  the  principal  square,  the  light  of  torches  sud 
denly  broke  on  him,  and  he  beheld  a  grand  funeral 
procession  moving  across  it.  There  was  a  great  train 
of  priests,  and  many  persons  of  dignified  appearance, 
in  ancient  Spanish  dresses,  attending  as  mourners,  none 
of  whom  he  knew.  Accosting  a  servant  who  followed 
in  the  train,  he  demanded  the  name  of  the  defunct. 

"  '  Don  Manuel  de  Manara,'  was  the  reply ;  and  it 
went  cold  to  his  heart.  He  looked,  and  indeed  beheld 
the  armorial  bearings  of  his  family  emblazoned  on  the 
funeral  escutcheons.  Yet  not  one  of  his  family  was 
to  be  seen  among  the  mourners.  The  mystery  was 
more  and  more  incomprehensible. 

"  He  followed  the  procession  as  it  moved  on  to  the 
cathedral.  The  bier  was  deposited  before  the  high 
altar;  the  funeral  service  was  commenced,  and  the 
grand  organ  began  to  peal  through  the  vaulted  aisles. 

"  Again  the  youth  ventured  to  question  this  awful 
pageant.  '  Father,'  said  he,  with  trembling  voice,  to 
one  of  the  priests,  '  who  is  this  you  are  about  to  inter  ?  ' 

"  '  Don  Manuel  de  Manara ! '  replied  the  priest. 


294   DON  JUAN:  A  SPECTRAL  RESEARCH 

"  '  Father/  cried  Don  Manuel,  impatiently,  '  you  are 
deceived.  This  is  some  imposture.  Know  that  Don 
Manuel  de  Manara  is  alive  and  well,  and  now  stands 
before  you.  /  am  Don  Manuel  de  Manara ! ' 

"  *  Avaunt,  rash  youth ! '  cried  the  priest ;  '  know 
that  Don  Manuel  de  Manara  is  dead !  —  is  dead !  —  is 
dead !  —  and  we  are  all  souls  from  purgatory,  his  de 
ceased  relatives  and  ancestors,  and  others  that  have 
been  aided  by  masses  from  his  family,  who  are  per 
mitted  to  come  here  and  pray  for  the  repose  of  his 
soul!' 

"  Don  Manuel  cast  round  a  fearful  glance  upon  the 
assemblage,  in  antiquated  Spanish  garbs,  and  recog 
nized  in  their  pale  and  ghastly  countenances  the  por 
traits  of  many  an  ancestor  that  hung  in  the  family 
picture-gallery.  He  now  lost  all  self-command,  rushed 
up  to  the  bier,  and  beheld  the  counterpart  of  himself, 
but  in  the  fixed  and  livid  lineaments  of  death.  Just  at 
that  moment  the  whole  choir  burst  forth  with  a  '  Requi- 
escat  in  pace'  that  shook  the  vaults  of  the  cathedral. 
Don  Manuel  sank  senseless  on  the  pavement.  He  was 
found  there  early  the  next  morning  by  the  sacristan, 
and  conveyed  to  his  home.  When  sufficiently  recov 
ered,  he  sent  for  a  friar,  and  made  a  full  confession  of 
all  that  had  happened. 

"  '  My  son,'  said  the  friar,  '  all  this  is  a  miracle  and 
a  mystery  intended  for  thy  conversion  and  salvation. 
The  corpse  thou  hast  seen  was  a  token  that  thou  hadst 
died  to  sin  and  the  world;  take  warning  by  it,  and 
henceforth  live  to  righteousness  and  heaven ! ' 

"  Don  Manuel  did  take  warning  by  it.  Guided  by 
the  counsels  of  the  worthy  friar,  he  disposed  of  all  his 
temporal  affairs;  dedicated  the  greater  part  of  his 
wealth  to  pious  uses,  especially  to  the  performance  of 
masses  for  souls  in  purgatory;  and  finally,  entering  a 
convent,  became  one  of  the  most  zealous  and  exem 
plary  monks  in  Seville." 


DON  JUAN:  A  SPECTRAL  RESEARCH  295 

While  my  companion  was  relating  this  story,  my 
eyes  wandered,  from  time  to  time,  about  the  dusky 
church.  Methought  the  burly  countenances  of  the 
monks  in  the  distant  choir  assumed  a  pallid,  ghastly 
hue,  and  their  deep  metallic  voices  a  sepulchral  sound. 
By  the  time  the  story  was  ended,  they  had  ended  their 
chant;  and,  extinguishing  their  lights,  glided  one  by 
one,  like  shadows,  through  a  small  door  in  the  side  of 
the  choir.  A  deeper  gloom  prevailed  over  the  church; 
the  figure  opposite  me  on  horseback  grew  more  and 
more  spectral ;  and  I  almost  expected  to  see  it  bow  its 
head. 

"  It  is  time  to  be  off,"  said  my  companion,  "  unless 
we  intend  to  sup  with  the  statue." 

"  I  have  no  relish  for  such  fare  nor  such  company," 
replied  I ;  and  following  my  companion,  we  groped  our 
way  through  the  mouldering  cloisters.  As  we  passed 
by  the  ruined  cemetery,  keeping  up  a  casual  conversa 
tion,  by  way  of  dispelling  the  loneliness  of  the  scene, 
I  called  to  mind  the  words  of  the  poet :  — 

The  tombs 

And  monumental  caves  of  death  look  cold, 
And  shoot  a  chillness  to  my  trembling  heart ! 
Give  me  thy  hand,  and  let  me  hear  thy  voice ; 
Nay,  speak  —  and  let  me  hear  thy  voice ; 
Mine  own  affrights  me  with  its  echoes. 

There  wanted  nothing  but  the  marble  statue  of  the 
commander,  striding  along  the  echoing  cloisters,  to 
complete  the  haunted  scene. 

Since  that  time,  I  never  fail  to  attend  the  theatre 
whenever  the  story  of  Don  Juan  is  represented,  whether 
in  pantomime  or  opera.  In  the  sepulchral  scene,  I  feel 
myself  quite  at  home;  and  when  the  statue  makes  his 
appearance,  I  greet  him  as  an  old  acquaintance.  When 
the  audience  applaud,  I  look  round  upon  them  with  a 
degree  of  compassion.  "  Poor  souls !  "  I  say  to  myself, 
"they  think  they  are  pleased;  they  think  they  enjoy 


296          THE  ENGULPHED  CONVENT 

this  piece,  and  yet  they  consider  the  whole  as  a  fiction ! 
How  much  more  would  they  enjoy  it,  if,  like  me,  they 
knew  it  to  be  true  —  and  had  seen  the  very  place!  " 


LEGEND  OF  THE  ENGULPHED 
CONVENT 

AT  the  dark  and  melancholy  period  when  Don  Roderick 
the  Goth  and  his  chivalry  were  overthrown  on  the 
banks  of  the  Guadalete,  and  all  Spain  was  overrun  by 
the  Moors,  great  was  the  devastation  of  churches  and 
convents  throughout  that  pious  kingdom.  The  miracu 
lous  fate  of  one  of  those  holy  piles  is  thus  recorded  in 
an  authentic  legend  of  those  days. 

On  the  summit  of  a  hill,  not  very  distant  from  the 
capital  city  of  Toledo,  stood  an  ancient  convent  and 
chapel,  dedicated  to  the  invocation  of  Saint  Benedict, 
and  inhabited  by  a  sisterhood  of  Benedictine  nuns. 
This  holy  asylum  wras  confined  to  females  of  noble  line 
age.  The  younger  sisters  of  the  highest  families  were 
here  given  in  religious  marriage  to  their  Saviour,  in 
order  that  the  portions  of  their  elder  sisters  might  be 
increased,  and  they  enabled  to  make  suitable  matches 
on  earth;  or  that  the  family  wealth  might  go  undi 
vided  to  elder  brothers,  and  the  dignity  of  their  ancient 
houses  be  protected  from  decay.  The  convent  was  re 
nowned,  therefore,  for  enshrining  within  its  walls  a 
sisterhood  of  the  purest  blood,  the  most  immaculate 
virtue,  and  most  resplendent  beauty,  of  all  Gothic 
Spain. 

When  the  Moors  overran  the  kingdom,  there  was 
nothing  that  more  excited  their  hostility,  than  these 
virgin  asylums.  The  very  sight  of  a  convent-spire  was 
sufficient  to  set  their  Moslem  blood  in  a  foment,  and 


THE  ENGULPHED  CONVENT    297 

they  sacked  it  with  as  fierce  a  zeal  as  though  the  sack 
ing  of  a  nunnery  were  a  sure  passport  to  Elysium. 

Tidings  of  such  outrages,  committed  in  various  parts 
of  the  kingdom,  reached  this  noble  sanctuary,  and  filled 
it  with  dismay.  The  danger  came  nearer  and  nearer; 
the  infidel  hosts  were  spreading  all  over  the  country; 
Toledo  itself  was  captured;  there  was  no  flying  from 
the  convent,  and  no  security  within  its  walls. 

In  the  midst  of  this  agitation,  the  alarm  was  given 
one  day,  that  a  great  band  of  Saracens  were  spurring 
across  the  plain.  In  an  instant  the  whole  convent  was 
a  scene  of  confusion.  Some  of  the  nuns  wrung  their 
fair  hands  at  the  windows;  others  waved  their  veils, 
and  uttered  shrieks,  from  the  tops  of  the  towers,  vainly 
hoping  to  draw  relief  from  a  country  overrun  by  the 
foe.  The  sight  of  these  innocent  doves  thus  fluttering 
about  their  dove-cote,  but  increased  the  zealot  fury  of 
the  whiskered  Moors.  They  thundered  at  the  portal, 
and  at  every  blow  the  ponderous  gates  trembled  on 
their  hinges. 

The  nuns  now  crowded  round  the  abbess.  They  had 
been  accustomed  to  look  up  to  her  as  all-powerful,  and 
they  now  implored  her  protection.  The  mother  abbess 
looked  with  a  rueful  eye  upon  the  treasures  of  beauty 
and  vestal  virtue  exposed  to  such  imminent  peril. 
Alas!  how  was  she  to  protect  them  from  the  spoiler! 
She  had,  it  is  true,  experienced  many  signal  interposi 
tions  of  Providence  in  her  individual  favor.  Her  early 
days  had  been  passed  amid  the  temptations  of  a  court, 
where  her  virtue  had  been  purified  by  repeated  trials, 
from  none  of  which  had  she  escaped  but  by  miracle. 
But  were  miracles  never  to  cease  ?  Could  she  hope  that 
the  marvellous  protection  shown  to  herself,  would  be 
extended  to  a  whole  sisterhood?  There  was  no  other 
resource.  The  Moors  were  at  the  threshold;  a  few 
moments  more,  and  the  convent  would  be  at  their 
mercy.  Summoning  her  nuns  to  follow  her,  she  hur- 


298          THE  ENGULPHED  CONVENT 

ried  into  the  chapel,  and  throwing  herself  on  her  knees 
before  the  image  of  the  blessed  Mary,  "  Oh,  holy 
Lady!  "  exclaimed  she,  "  oh,  most  pure  and  immaculate 
of  virgins!  thou  seest  our  extremity.  The  ravager  is 
at  the  gate,  and  there  is  none  on  earth  to  help  us !  Look 
down  with  pity,  and  grant  that  the  earth  may  gape  and 
swallow  us,  rather  than  that  our  cloister  vows  should 
suffer  violation !  " 

The  Moors  redoubled  their  assault  upon  the  portal; 
the  gates  gave  way,  with  a  tremendous  crash ;  a  savage 
yell  of  exultation  arose;  when  of  a  sudden  the  earth 
yawned,  down  sank  the  convent,  with  its  cloisters,  its 
dormitories,  and  all  its  nuns.  The  chapel  tower  was 
the  last  that  sank,  the  bell  ringing  forth  a  peal  of 
triumph  in  the  very  teeth  of  the  infidels. 

Forty  years  had  passed  and  gone,  since  the  period 
of  this  miracle.  The  subjugation  of  Spain  was  com 
plete.  The  Moors  lorded  it  over  city  and  country ;  and 
such  of  the  Christian  population  as  remained,  and  were 
permitted  to  exercise  their  religion,  did  it  in  humble 
resignation  to  the  Moslem  sway. 

At  this  time,  a  Christian  cavalier  of  Cordova,  hear 
ing  that  a  patriotic  band  of  his  countrymen  had  raised 
the  standard  of  the  cross  in  the  mountains  of  the 
Asturias,  resolved  to  join  them,  and  unite  in  breaking 
the  yoke  of  bondage.  Secretly  arming  himself  and 
caparisoning  his  steed,  he  set  forth  from  Cordova,  and 
pursued  his  course  by  unfrequented  mule-paths,  and 
along  the  dry  channels  made  by  winter  torrents.  His 
spirit  burned  with  indignation,  whenever,  on  command 
ing  a  view  over  a  long  sweeping  plain,  he  beheld  the 
mosque  swelling  in  the  distance,  and  the  Arab  horse 
men  careering  about,  as  if  the  rightful  lords  of  the  soil. 
Many  a  deep-drawn  sigh  and  heavy  groan,  also,  did  the 
good  cavalier  utter,  on  passing  the  ruins  of  churches 
and  convents  desolated  by  the  conquerors. 


THE  ENGULPHED  CONVENT    299 

It  was  on  a  sultry  midsummer  evening,  that  this 
wandering  cavalier,  in  skirting  a  hill  thickly  covered 
with  forest,  heard  the  faint  tones  of  a  vesper-bell 
sounding  melodiously  in  the  air,  and  seeming  to  come 
from  the  summit  of  the  hill.  The  cavalier  crossed  him 
self  with  wonder  at  this  unwonted  and  Christian  sound. 
He  supposed  it  to  proceed  from  one  of  those  humble 
chapels  and  hermitages  permitted  to  exist  through  the 
indulgence  of  the  Moslem  conquerors.  Turning  his 
steed  up  a  narrow  path  of  the  forest,  he  sought  this 
sanctuary,  in  hopes  of  finding  a  hospitable  shelter  for 
the  night.  As  he  advanced,  the  trees  threw  a  deep 
gloom  around  him,  and  the  bat  flitted  across  his  path. 
The  bell  ceased  to  toll,  and  all  was  silence. 

Presently  a  choir  of  female  voices  came  stealing 
sweetly  through  the  forest,  chanting  the  evening  ser 
vice,  to  the  solemn  accompaniment  of  an  organ.  The 
heart  of  the  good  cavalier  melted  at  the  sound,  for  it 
recalled  the  happier  days  of  his  country.  Urging  for 
ward  his  weary  steed,  he  at  length  arrived  at  a  broad 
grassy  area,  on  the  summit  of  the  hill,  surrounded  by 
the  forest.  Here  the  melodious  voices  rose  in  full 
chorus,  like  the  swelling  of  the  breeze;  but  whence 
they  came,  he  could  not  tell.  Sometimes  they  were 
before,  sometimes  behind  him;  sometimes  in  the  air, 
sometimes  as  if  from  within  the  bosom  of  the  earth. 
At  length  they  died  away,  and  a  holy  stillness  settled 
on  the  place. 

The  cavalier  gazed  around  with  bewildered  eye. 
There  was  neither  chapel  nor  convent,  nor  humble  her 
mitage,  to  be  seen;  nothing  but  a  moss-grown  stone 
pinnacle,  rising  out  of  the  centre  of  the  area,  sur 
mounted  by  a  cross.  The  green  sward  appeared  to 
have  been  sacred  from  the  tread  of  man  or  beast,  and 
the  surrounding  trees  bent  toward  the  cross,  as  if  in 
adoration. 

The   cavalier   felt   a  sensation   of   holy   awe.      He 


300         THE  ENGULPHED  CONVENT 

alighted,  and  tethered  his  steed  on  the  skirts  of  the 
forest,  where  he  might  crop  the  tender  herbage;  then 
approaching  the  cross,  he  knelt  and  poured  forth  his 
evening  prayers. be  fore  this  relic  of  the  Christian  days 
of  Spain.  His  orisons  being  concluded,  he  laid  himself 
down  at  the  foot  of  the  pinnacle,  and  reclining  his 
head  against  one  of  its  stones,  fell  into  a  deep  sleep. 

About  midnight  he  was  awakened  by  the  tolling  of 
a  bell,  and  found  himself  lying  before  the  gate  of  an 
ancient  convent.  A  train  of  nuns  passed  by,  each  bear 
ing  a  taper.  He  rose  and  followed  them  into  the 
chapel ;  in  the  centre  was  a  bier,  on  which  lay  the 
corpse  of  an  aged  nun.  The  organ  performed  a  solemn 
requiem,  the  nuns  joining  in  chorus.  When  the 
funeral  service  was  finished,  a  melodious  voice 
chanted,  "  Requiescat  in  pace!  "  —  "  May  she  rest  in 
peace !  "  The  lights  immediately  vanished ;  the  whole 
passed  away  as  a  dream ;  and  the  cavalier  found  him 
self  at  the  foot  of  the  cross,  and  beheld,  by  the  faint 
rays  of  the  rising  moon,  his  steed  quietly  grazing  near 
him. 

When  the  day  dawned,  he  descended  the  hill,  and 
following  the  course  of  a  small  brook,  came  to  a  cave, 
at  the  entrance  of  which  was  seated  an  ancient  man,  in 
hermit's  garb,  with  rosary  and  cross,  and  a  beard  that 
descended  to  his  girdle.  He  was  one  of  those  holy  an 
chorites  permitted  by  the  Moors  to  live  unmolested  in 
the  dens  and  caves,  and  humble  hermitages,  and  even 
to  practise  the  rites  of  their  religion.  The  cavalier,  dis 
mounting,  knelt  and  craved  a  benediction.  He  then 
related  all  that  had  befallen  him  in  the  night,  and  be 
sought  the  hermit  to  explain  the  mystery. 

"  What  thou  hast  heard  and  seen,  my  son,"  replied 
the  other,  "  is  but  a  type  and  shadow  of  the  woes  of 
Spain." 

He  then  related  the  foregoing  story  of  the  miracu 
lous  deliverance  of  the  convent. 


THE  ENGULPHED  CONVENT         301 

"  Forty  years,"  added  the  holy  man,  "  have  elapsed 
since  this  event,  yet  the  bells  of  that  sacred  edifice  are 
still  heard,  from  time  to  time,  sounding  from  under 
ground,  together  with  the  pealing  of  the  organ  and  the 
chanting  of  the  choir.  The  Moors  avoid  this  neighbor 
hood,  as  haunted  ground,  and  the  whole  place,  as  thou 
mayest  perceive,  has  become  covered  with  a  thick  and 
lonely  forest." 

The  cavalier  listened  with  wonder  to  the  story.  For 
three  days  and  nights  did  he  keep  vigils  with  the  holy 
man  beside  the  cross ;  but  nothing  more  was  to  be  seen 
of  nun  or  convent.  It  is  supposed  that,  forty  years 
having  elapsed,  the  natural  lives  of  all  the  nuns  were 
finished,  and  the  cavalier  had  beheld  the  obsequies  of 
the  last.  Certain  it  is,  that  from  that  time,  bell,  and 
organ,  and  choral  chant,  have  never  more  been  heard. 

The  mouldering  pinnacle,  surmounted  by  the  cross, 
remains  an  object  of  pious  pilgrimage.  Some  say  that 
it  anciently  stood  in  front  of  the  convent,  but  others 
that  it  was  the  spire  which  remained  above  ground, 
when  the  main  body  of  the  building  sank,  like  the  top 
mast  of  some  tall  ship  that  has  foundered.  These  pious 
believers  maintain  that  the  convent  is  miraculously  pre 
served  entire  in  the  centre  of  the  mountain,  where,  if 
proper  excavations  were  made,  it  would  be  found,  with 
all  its  treasures,  and  monuments,  and  shrines,  and 
relics,  and  the  tombs  of  its  virgin  nuns. 

Should  any  one  doubt  the  truth  of  this  marvellous 
interposition  of  the  Virgin,  to  protect  the  vestal  purity 
of  her  votaries,  let  him  read  the  excellent  work  entitled 
"  Espana  Triumphante,"  written  by  Fray  Antonio  de 
Sancta  Maria,  a  barefoot  friar  of  the  Carmelite  order, 
and  he  will  doubt  no  longer. 


302  THE  PHANTOM  ISLAND 


THE   PHANTOM  ISLAND 

Break,  Phantsie,  from  thy  cave  of  cloud, 

And  wave  thy  purple  wings, 
Now  all  thy  figures  are  allowed, 
And  various  shapes  of  things. 
Create  of  airy  forms  a  stream; 

It  must  have  blood  and  naught  of  phlegm; 
And  though  it  be  a  walking  dream, 
Yet  let  it  like  an  odor  rise 

To  all  the  senses  here, 
And  fall  like  sleep  upon  their  eyes, 
Or  music  on  their  ear. 

BEN  JONSON 

"  THERE  are  more  things  in  heaven  and  earth  than  are 
dreamed  of  in  our  philosophy,"  and  among  these  may 
be  placed  that  marvel  and  mystery  of  the  seas,  the 
Island  of  St.  Brandan.  Those  who  have  read  the  his 
tory  of  the  Canaries,  the  fortunate  islands  of  the  an 
cients,  may  remember  the  wonders  told  of  this  enigmat 
ical  island.  Occasionally  it  would  be  visible  from  their 
shores,  stretching  away  in  the  clear  bright  west,  to  all 
appearance  substantial  like  themselves,  and  still  more 
beautiful.  Expeditions  would  launch  forth  from  the 
Canaries  to  explore  this  land  of  promise.  For  a  time 
its  sun-gilt  peaks  and  long,  shadowy  promontories 
would  remain  distinctly  visible,  but  in  proportion  as 
the  voyagers  approached,  peak  and  promontory  would 
gradually  fade  away  until  nothing  would  remain  but 
blue  sky  above  and  deep  blue  water  below.  Hence  this 
mysterious  isle  was  stigmatized  by  ancient  cosmogra- 
phers  with  the  name  of  Aprositus  or  the  Inaccessible. 
The  failure  of  numerous  expeditions  sent  in  quest  of  it, 
both  in  ancient  and  modern  days,  have  at  length  caused 
its  very  existence  to  be  called  in  question,  and  it  has 
been  rashly  pronounced  a  mere  optical  illusion,  like  the 


THE  PHANTOM  ISLAND  303 

Fata  Morgana  of  the  Straits  of  Messina,  or  has  been 
classed  with  those  unsubstantial  regions  known  to 
mariners  as  Cape  Fly  Away  and  the  coast  of  Cloud 
Land. 

Let  us  not  permit,  however,  the  doubts  of  worldly- 
wise  sceptics  to  rob  us  of  all  the  glorious  realms  owned 
by  happy  credulity  in  days  of  yore.  Be  assured,  O 
reader  of  easy  faith !  —  thou  for  whom  it  is  my  de 
light  to  labor  —  be  assured  that  such  an  island  actually 
exists,  and  has  from  time  to  time  been  revealed  to  the 
gaze  and  trodden  by  the  feet  of  favored  mortals.  His 
torians  and  philosophers  may  have  their  doubts,  but 
its  existence  has  been  fully  attested  by  that  inspired 
race,  the  poets;  who,  being  gifted  with  a  kind  of  sec 
ond  sight,  are  enabled  to  discern  those  mysteries  of 
nature  hidden  from  the  eyes  of  ordinary  men.  To  this 
gifted  race  it  has  ever  been  a  kind  of  wonder-land. 
Here  once  bloomed,  and  perhaps  still  blooms,  the 
famous  garden  of  the  Hesperides,  with  its  golden  fruit. 
Here,  too,  the  sorceress  Armida  had  her  enchanted  gar 
den,  in  which  she  held  the  Christian  paladin,  Rinaldo, 
in  delicious  but  inglorious  thraldom,  as  set  forth  in  the 
immortal  lay  of  Tasso.  It  was  in  this  island  that 
Sycorax  the  witch  held  sway,  when  the  good  Prospero 
and  his  infant  daughter  Miranda  were  wafted  to  its 
shores.  Who  does  not  know  the  tale  as  told  in  the 
magic  page  of  Shakspeare?  The  isle  was  then 

full  of  noises, 


Sounds,  and  sweet  airs,  that  give  delight,  and  hurt  not. 

The  island,  in  fact  at  different  times,  has  been  under 
the  sway  of  different  powers,  genii  of  earth,  and  air, 
and  ocean,  who  have  made  it  their  shadowy  abode. 
Hither  have  retired  many  classic  but  broken  down 
deities,  shorn  of  almost  all  their  attributes,  but  who 
once  ruled  the  poetic  world.  Here  Neptune  and  Am- 
phitrite  hold  a  diminished  court,  sovereigns  in  exile. 


304  THE  PHANTOM  ISLAND 

Their  ocean-chariot,  almost  a  wreck,  lies  bottom  up 
ward  in  some  sea-beaten  cavern;  their  pursy  Tritons 
and  haggard  Nereids  bask  listlessly  like  seals  about 
the  rocks.  Sometimes  those  deities  assume,  it  is  said, 
a  shadow  of  their  ancient  pomp,  and  glide  in  state  about 
a  summer  sea;  and  then,  as  some  tall  Indiaman  lies 
becalmed  with  idly  flapping  sail,  her  drowsy  crew  may 
hear  the  mellow  note  of  the  Triton's  shell  swelling  upon 
the  ear  as  the  invisible  pageant  sweeps  by. 

On  the  shores  of  this  wrondrous  isle  the  kraken 
heaves  its  unwieldy  bulk  and  wallows  many  a  rood. 
Here  the  sea-serpent,  that  mighty  but  much  contested 
reptile,  lies  coiled  up  during  the  intervals  of  its  revela 
tions  to  the  eyes  of  true  believers.  Here  even  the  Fly 
ing  Dutchman  finds  a  port,  and  casts  his  anchor,  and 
furls  his  shadowy  sail,  and  takes  a  brief  repose  from 
his  eternal  cruisings. 

In  the  deep  bays  and  harbors  of  the  island  lies  many 
a  spellbound  ship,  long  since  given  up  as  lost  by  the 
ruined  merchant.  Here,  too,  its  crew,  long,  long  be 
wailed  in  vain,  lie  sleeping  from  age  to  age  in  mossy 
grottoes,  or  wander  about  in  pleasing  oblivion  of  all 
things.  Here  in  caverns  are  garnered  up  the  priceless 
treasures  lost  in  the  ocean.  Here  sparkles  in  vain  the 
diamond  and  flames  the  carbuncle.  Here  are  piled  up 
rich  bales  of  Oriental  silks,  boxes  of  pearls,  and  piles 
of  golden  ingots. 

Such  are  some  of  the  marvels  related  of  this  island, 
which  may  serve  to  throw  light  upon  the  following 
legend,  of  unquestionable  truth,  which  I  recommend  to 
the  implicit  belief  of  the  reader. 


ADALANTADO  OF  THE  SEVEN  CITIES  305 
THE  ADALANTADO  OF  THE  SEVEN  CITIES 

A  LEGEND  OF   ST.   BRANDAN 

In  the  early  part  of  the  fifteenth  century,  when  Prince 
Henry  of  Portugal,  of  worthy  memory,  was  pushing 
the  career  of  discovery  along  the  western  coast  of 
Africa,  and  the  world  was  resounding  with  reports  of 
golden  regions  on  the  mainland,  and  new-found  islands 
in  the  ocean,  there  arrived  at  Lisbon  an  old  bewildered 
pilot  of  the  seas,  who  had  been  driven  by  tempests,  he 
knew  not  whither,  and  raved  about  an  island  far  in  the 
deep,  upon  which  he  had  landed,  and  which  he  had 
found  peopled  with  Christians,  and  adorned  with  noble 
cities. 

The  inhabitants,  he  said,  having  never  before  been 
visited  by  a  ship,  gathered  round,  and  regarded  him 
with  surprise.  They  told  him  they  were  descendants 
of  a  band  of  Christians,  who  fled  from  Spain  when 
that  country  was  conquered  by  the  Moslems.  They 
were  curious  about  the  state  of  their  fatherland,  and 
grieved  to  hear  that  the  Moslems  still  held  possession 
of  the  kingdom  of  Granada.  They  would  have  taken 
the  old  navigator  to  church,  to  convince  him  of  their 
orthodoxy;  but,  either  through  lack  of  devotion,  or 
lack  of  faith  in  their  words,  he  declined  their  invitation, 
and  preferred  to  return  on  board  of  his  ship.  He  was 
properly  punished.  A  furious  storm  arose,  drove  him 
from  his  anchorage,  hurried  him  out  to  sea,  and  he 
saw  no  more  of  the  unknown  island. 

This  strange  story  caused  great  marvel  in  Lisbon 
and  elsewhere.  Those  versed  in  history  remembered 
to  have  read,  in  an  ancient  chronicle,  that,  at  the  time 
of  the  conquest  of  Spain,  in  the  eighth  century,  when 
the  blessed  cross  was  cast  down,  and  the  crescent 
erected  in  its  place,  and  when  Christian  churches  were 


3o6  THE  PHANTOM  ISLAND 

turned  into  Moslem  mosques,  seven  bishops,  at  the  head 
of  seven  bands  of  pious  exiles,  had  fled  from  the  pe 
ninsula,  and  embarked  in  quest  of  some  ocean  island,  or 
distant  land,  where  they  might  found  seven  Christian 
cities,  and  enjoy  their  faith  unmolested. 

The  fate  of  these  saints  errant  had  hitherto  remained 
a  mystery,  and  their  story  had  faded  from  memory; 
the  report  of  the  old  tempest-tossed  pilot,  however,  re 
vived  this  long- forgotten  theme ;  and  it  was  determined 
by  the  pious  and  enthusiastic,  that  the  island  thus  ac 
cidentally  discovered  was  the  identical  place  of  refuge 
whither  the  wandering  bishops  had  been  guided  by  a 
protecting  Providence,  and  where  they  had  folded  their 
flocks. 

This  most  excitable  of  worlds  has  always  some  dar 
ling  object  of  chimerical  enterprise ;  the  "  Island  of  the 
Seven  Cities "  now  awakened  as  much  interest  and 
longing  among  zealous  Christians  as  has  the  renowned 
city  of  Timbuctoo  among  adventurous  travellers,  or 
the  Northeast  passage  among  hardy  navigators;  and 
it  was  a  frequent  prayer  of  the  devout,  that  these  scat 
tered  and  lost  portions  of  the  Christian  family  might 
be  discovered  and  reunited  to  the  great  body  of 
Christendom. 

No  one,  however,  entered  into  the  matter  with  half 
the  zeal  of  Don  Fernando  de  Ulmo,  a  young  cavalier 
of  high  standing  in  the  Portuguese  court,  and  of  most 
sanguine  and  romantic  temperament.  He  had  recently 
come  to  his  estate,  and  had  run  the  round  of  all  kinds 
of  pleasures  and  excitements  when  this  new  theme  of 
popular  talk  and  wonder  presented  itself.  The  Island 
of  the  Seven  Cities  became  now  the  constant  subject  of 
his  thoughts  by  day,  and  his  dreams  by  night ;  it  even 
rivalled  his  passion  for  a  beautiful  girl,  one  of  the 
greatest  belles  of  Lisbon,  to  whom  he  was  betrothed. 
At  length  his  imagination  became  so  inflamed  on  the 
subject,  that  he  determined  to  fit  out  an  expedition,  at 


ADALANTADO  OF  THE  SEVEN  CITIES    307 

his  own  expense,  and  set  sail  in  quest  of  this  sainted 
island.  It  could  not  be  a  cruise  of  any  great  extent; 
for,  according  to  the  calculations  of  the  tempest-tossed 
pilot,  it  must  be  somewhere  in  the  latitude  of  the 
Canaries ;  which  at  that  time,  when  the  new  world  was 
as  yet  undiscovered,  formed  the  frontier  of  ocean  en 
terprise.  Don  Fernando  applied  to  the  crown  for 
countenance  and  protection.  As  he  was  a  favorite  at 
court,  the  usual  patronage  was  readily  extended  to  him ; 
that  is  to  say,  he  received  a  commission  from  the  king, 
Don  loam  II.,  constituting  him  Adalantado,  or  mili 
tary  governor,  of  any  country  he  might  discover,  with 
the  single  proviso,  that  he  should  bear  all  the  expenses 
of  the  discovery,  and  pay  a  tenth  of  the  profits  to  the 
crown. 

Don  Fernando  now  set  to  work  in  the  true  spirit  of 
a  projector.  He  sold  acre  after  acre  of  solid  land,  and 
invested  the  proceeds  in  ships,  guns,  ammunition,  and 
sea-stores.  Even  his  old  family  mansion  in  Lisbon  was 
mortgaged  without  scruple,  for  he  looked  forward  to 
a  palace  in  one  of  the  Seven  Cities,  of  which  he  was 
to  be  Adalantado.  This  was  the  age  of  nautical 
romance,  when  the  thoughts  of  all  speculative  dreamers 
were  turned  to  the  ocean.  The  scheme  of  Don  Fer 
nando,  therefore,  drew  adventurers  of  every  kind.  The 
merchant  promised  himself  new  marts  of  opulent 
traffic ;  the  soldier  hoped  to  sack  and  plunder  some  one 
or  other  of  those  Seven  Cities;  even  the  fat  monk 
shook  off  the  sleep  and  sloth  of  the  cloister,  to  join  in 
a  crusade  which  promised  such  increase  to  the  posses 
sions  of  the  Church. 

One  person  alone  regarded  the  whole  project  with 
sovereign  contempt  and  growling  hostility.  This  was 
Don  Ramiro  Alvarez,  the  father  of  the  beautiful  Sera- 
fina,  to  whom  Don  Fernando  was  betrothed.  He  was 
one  of  those  perverse,  matter-of-fact  old  men,  who 
are  prone  to  oppose  everything  speculative  and  ro- 


308  THE  PHANTOM  ISLAND 

mantic.  He  had  no  faith  in  the  Island  of  the  Seven 
Cities;  regarded  the  projected  cruise  as  a  crack- 
brained  freak;  looked  with  angry  eye  and  internal 
heart-burning  on  the  conduct  of  his  intended  son-in- 
law,  chaffering  away  solid  lands  for  lands  in  the  moon ; 
and  scoffingly  dubbed  him  Adalantado  of  Cloud  Land. 
In  fact,  he  had  never  really  relished  the  intended 
match,  to  which  his  consent  had  been  slowly  extorted 
by  the  tears  and  entreaties  of  his  daughter.  It  is  true 
he  could  have  no  reasonable  objections  to  the  youth,  for 
Don  Fernando  was  the  very  flower  of  Portuguese 
chivalry.  No  one  could  excel  him  at  the  tilting  match, 
or  the  riding  at  the  ring;  none  was  more  bold  and 
dexterous  in  the  bull  fight;  none  composed  more  gal 
lant  madrigals  in  praise  of  his  lady's  charms,  or  sang 
them  with  sweeter  tones  to  the  accompaniment  of  her 
guitar;  nor  could  any  one  handle  the  castanets  and 
dance  the  bolero  with  more  captivating  grace.  All 
these  admirable  qualities  and  endowments,  however, 
though  they  had  been  sufficient  to  win  the  heart  of 
Serafma,  were  nothing  in  the  eyes  of  her  unreasonable 
father.  Oh  Cupid,  god  of  Love !  why  will  fathers  al 
ways  be  so  unreasonable? 

The  engagement  to  Serafina  had  threatened  at  first 
to  throw  an  obstacle  in  the  way  of  the  expedition  of 
Don  Fernando,  and  for  a  time  perplexed  him  in  the  ex 
treme.  He  was  passionately  attached  to  the  young 
lady;  but  he  was  also  passionately  bent  on  this  ro 
mantic  enterprise.  How  should  he  reconcile  the  two 
passionate  inclinations?  A  simple  and  obvious  ar 
rangement  at  length  presented  itself,  —  marry  Sera 
fina,  enjoy  a  portion  of  the  honeymoon  at  once,  and 
defer  the  rest  until  his  return  from  the  discovery  of  the 
Seven  Cities ! 

He  hastened  to  make  known  this  most  excellent  ar 
rangement  to  Don  Ramiro,  when  the  long-smothered 
wrath  of  the  old  cavalier  burst  forth.  He  reproached 


ADALANTADO  OF  THE  SEVEN  CITIES    309 

him  with  being  the  dupe  of  wandering  vagabonds  and 
wild  schemers,  and  with  squandering  all  his  real  posses 
sions,  in  pursuit  of  empty  bubbles.  Don  Fernando  was 
too  sanguine  a  projector,  and  too  young  a  man,  to  listen 
tamely  to  such  language.  He  acted  with  what  is  tech 
nically  called  "  becoming  spirit."  A  high  quarrel  en 
sued;  Don  Ramiro  pronounced  him  a  madman,  and 
forbade  all  farther  intercourse  with  his  daughter  until 
he  should  give  proof  of  returning  sanity  by  abandon 
ing  this  madcap  enterprise ;  while  Don  Fernando  flung 
out  of  the  house,  more  bent  than  ever  on  the  expedition, 
from  the  idea  of  triumphing  over  the  incredulity  of  the 
graybeard,  when  he  should  return  successful.  Don 
Ramiro's  heart  misgave  him.  Who  knows,  thought 
he,  but  this  crack-brained  visionary  may  persuade  my 
daughter  to  elope  with  him,  and  share  his  throne  in 
this  unknown  paradise  of  fools?  If  I  could  only  keep 
her  safe  until  his  ships  are  fairly  out  at  sea ! 

He  repaired  to  her  apartment,  represented  to  her 
the  sanguine,  unsteady  character  of  her  lover  and  the 
chimerical  value  of  his  schemes,  and  urged  the  pro 
priety  of  suspending  all  intercourse  with  him  until  he 
should  recover  from  his  present  hallucination.  She 
bowed  her  head  as  if  in  filial  acquiescence,  whereupon 
he  folded  her  to  his  bosom  with  parental  fondness  and 
kissed  away  a  tear  that  was  stealing  over  her  cheek,  but 
as  he  left  the  chamber  quietly  turned  the  key  on  the 
lock ;  for  though  he  was  a  fond  father  and  had  a  high 
opinion  of  the  submissive  temper  of  his  child,  he  had  a 
still  higher  opinion  of  the  conservative  virtues  of  lock 
and  key,  and  determined  to  trust  to  them  until  the 
caravels  should  sail.  Whether  the  damsel  had  been 
in  any  wise  shaken  in  her  faith  as  to  the  schemes  of  her 
lover  by  her  father's  eloquence,  tradition  does  not  say ; 
but  certain  it  is,  that,  the  moment  she  heard  the  key 
turn  in  the  lock,  she  became  a  firm  believer  in  the  Island 
of  the  Seven  Cities. 


310  THE  PHANTOM  ISLAND 

The  door  was  locked;  but  her  will  was  unconfined. 
A  window  of  the  chamber  opened  into  one  of  those 
stone  balconies,  secured  by  iron  bars,  which  project 
like  huge  cages  from  Portuguese  and  Spanish  houses. 
Within  this  balcony  the  beautiful  Serafina  had  her  birds 
and  flowers,  and  here  she  was  accustomed  to  sit  on 
moonlight  nights  as  in  a  bower,  and  touch  her  guitar 
and  sing  like  a  wakeful  nightingale.  From  this  bal 
cony  an  intercourse  was  now  maintained  between  the 
lovers,  against  which  the  lock  and  key  of  Don  Ramiro 
were  of  no  avail.  All  day  would  Fernando  be  occu 
pied  hurrying  the  equipments  of  his  ships,  but  evening 
found  him  in  sweet  discourse  beneath  his  lady's 
window. 

At  length  the  preparations  were  completed.  Two 
gallant  caravels  lay  at  anchor  in  the  Tagus  ready  to 
sail  at  sunrise.  Late  at  night  by  the  pale  light  of  a 
waning  moon  the  lover  had  his  last  interview.  The 
beautiful  Serafina  was  sad  at  heart  and  full  of  dark 
forebodings;  her  lover  full  of  hope  and  confidence. 
"  A  few  short  months,"  said  he,  "  and  I  shall  return 
in  triumph.  Thy  father  will  then  blush  at  his  incre 
dulity,  and  hasten  to  welcome  to  his  house  the  Adalan- 
tado  of  the  Seven  Cities." 

The  gentle  lady  shook  her  head.  It  was  not  on  this 
point  she  felt  distrust.  She  was  a  thorough  believer 
in  the  Island  of  the  Seven  Cities,  and  so  sure  of  the 
success  of  the  enterprise  that  she  might  have  been 
tempted  to  join  it  had  not  the  balcony  been  high  and 
the  grating  strong.  Other  considerations  induced  that 
dubious  shaking  of  the  head.  She  had  heard  of  the  in 
constancy  of  the  seas,  and  the  inconstancy  of  those 
who  roam  them.  Might  not  Fernando  meet  with  other 
loves  in  foreign  ports?  Might  not  some  peerless 
beauty  in  one  or  other  of  those  Seven  Cities  efface  the 
image  of  Serafina  from  his  mind?  Now  let  the  truth 
be  spoken,  the  beautiful  Serafina  had  reason  for  her 


ADALANTADO  OF  THE  SEVEN  CITIES    311 

disquiet.  If  Don  Fernando  had  any  fault  in  the  world, 
it  was  that  of  being  rather  inflammable  and  apt  to  take 
fire  from  every  sparkling  eye.  He  had  been  somewhat 
of  a  rover  among  the  sex  on  shore,  what  might  he  be 
on  sea? 

She  ventured  to  express  her  doubt,  but  he  spurned  at 
the  very  idea.  "  What !  he  false  to  Serafina !  He  bow 
at  the  shrine  of  another  beauty  ?  Never !  never !  "  Re 
peatedly  did  he  bend  his  knee,  and  smite  his  breast,  and 
call  upon  the  silver  moon  to  witness  his  sincerity  and 
truth. 

He  retorted  the  doubt,  "  Might  not  Serafina  herself 
forget  her  plighted  faith?  Might  not  some  wealthier 
rival  present  himself  while  he  was  tossing  on  the  sea; 
and,  backed  by  her  father's  wishes,  win  the  treasure 
of  her  hand?" 

The  beautiful  Serafina  raised  her  white  arms  between 
the  iron  bars  of  the  balcony,  and,  like  her  lover,  in 
voked  the  moon  to  testify  her  vows.  Alas!  how  little 
did  Fernando  know  her  heart.  The  more  her  father 
should  oppose,  the  more  would  she  be  fixed  in  faith. 
Though  years  should  intervene,  Fernando  on  his  re 
turn  would  find  her  true.  Even  should  the  salt  sea 
swallow  him  up  (and  her  eyes  shed  salt  tears  at  the 
very  thought),  never  would  she  be  the  wife  of  another ! 
Never,  never,  NEVER  !  She  drew  from  her  finger  a  ring 
gemmed  with  a  ruby  heart,  and  dropped  it  from  the 
balcony,  a  parting  pledge  of  constancy. 

Thus  the  lovers  parted  with  many  a  tender  word  and 
plighted  vow.  But  will  they  keep  those  vows  ?  Perish 
the  doubt !  Have  they  not  called  the  constant  moon  to 
witness  ? 

With  the  morning  dawn  the  caravels  dropped  down 
the  Tagus,  and  put  to  sea.  They  steered  for  the  Ca 
naries,  in  those  days  the  regions  of  nautical  discovery 
and  romance,  and  the  outposts  of  the  known  world,  for 
as  yet  Columbus  had  not  steered  his  daring  barks 


312  THE  PHANTOM  ISLAND 

across  the  ocean.  Scarce  had  they  reached  those  lati 
tudes  when  they  were  separated  by  a  violent  tempest. 
For  many  days  was  the  caravel  of  Don  Fernando 
driven  about  at  the  mercy  of  the  elements ;  all  seaman 
ship  was  baffled,  destruction  seemed  inevitable  and  the 
crew  were  in  despair.  All  at  once  the  storm  subsided ; 
the  ocean  sank  into  a  calm;  the  clouds  which  had 
veiled  the  face  of  heaven  were  suddenly  withdrawn, 
and  the  tempest-tossed  mariners  beheld  a  fair  and 
mountainous  island,  emerging  as  if  by  enchantment 
from  the  murky  gloom.  They  rubbed  their  eyes,  and 
gazed  for  a  time  almost  incredulously,  yet  there  lay  the 
island  spread  out  in  lovely  landscapes,  with  the  late 
stormy  sea  laving  its  shores  with  peaceful  billows. 

The  pilot  of  the  caravel  consulted  his  maps  and 
charts;  no  island  like  the  one  before  him  was  laid 
down  as  existing  in  those  parts ;  it  is  true  he  had  lost 
his  reckoning  in  the  late  storm,  but,  according  to  his 
calculations,  he  could  not  be  far  from  the  Canaries; 
and  this  was  not  one  of  that  group  of  islands.  The 
caravel  now  lay  perfectly  becalmed  off  the  mouth  of  a 
river,  on  the  banks  of  which,  about  a  league  from  the 
sea,  was  descried  a  noble  city,  with  lofty  walls  and 
towers,  and  a  protecting  castle. 

After  a  time,  a  stately  barge  with  sixteen  oars  was 
seen  emerging  from  the  river,  and  approaching  the 
caravel.  It  was  quaintly  carved  and  gilt ;  the  oarsmen 
were  clad  in  antique  garb,  their  oars  painted  of  a  bright 
crimson,  and  they  came  slowly  and  solemnly,  keeping 
time  as  they  rowed  to  the  cadence  of  an  old  Spanish 
ditty.  Under  a  silken  canopy  in  the  stern,  sat  a  cavalier 
richly  clad,  and  over  his  head  was  a  banner  bearing 
the  sacred  emblem  of  the  cross. 

When  the  barge  reached  the  caravel,  the  cavalier 
stepped  on  board.  He  was  tall  and  gaunt ;  with  a  long 
Spanish  visage,  moustaches  that  curled  up  to  his  eyes, 
and  a  forked  beard.  He  wore  gauntlets  reaching  to 


ADALANTADO  OF  THE  SEVEN  CITIES    313 

his  elbows,  a  Toledo  blade  strutting  out  behind,  with 
a  basket  hilt,  in  which  he  carried  his  handkerchief.  His 
air  was  lofty  and  precise,  and  bespoke  indisputably  the 
hidalgo.  Thrusting  out  a  long  spindle  leg,  he  took  off 
a  huge  sombrero,  and  swaying  it  until  the  feather  swept 
the  ground,  accosted  Don  Fernando  in  the  old  Castilian 
language,  and  with  the  old  Castilian  courtesy,  welcom 
ing  him  to  the  Island  of  the  Seven  Cities. 

Don  Fernando  was  overwhelmed  with  astonishment. 
Could  this  be  true  ?  Had  he  really  been  tempest-driven 
to  the  very  land  of  which  he  was  in  quest? 

It  was  even  so.  That  very  day  the  inhabitants  were 
holding  high  festival  in  commemoration  of  the  escape 
of  their  ancestors  from  the  Moors.  The  arrival  of  the 
caravel  at  such  a  juncture  was  considered  a  good  omen, 
the  accomplishment  of  an  ancient  prophecy  through 
which  the  island  was  to  be  restored  to  the  great  com 
munity  of  Christendom.  The  cavalier  before  him  was 
grand  chamberlain,  sent  by  the  alcayde  to  invite  him 
to  the  festivities  of  the  capital. 

Don  Fernando  could  scarce  believe  that  this  was  not 
all  a  dream.  He  made  known  his  name  and  the  object 
of  his  voyage.  The  grand  chamberlain  declared  that 
all  was  in  perfect  accordance  with  the  ancient  prophecy, 
and  that  the  moment  his  credentials  were  presented,  he 
would  be  acknowledged  as  the  Adalantado  of  the  Seven 
Cities.  In  the  mean  time  the  day  was  waning;  the 
barge  was  ready  to  convey  him  to  the  land,  and  would 
as  assuredly  bring  him  back. 

Don  Fernando' s  pilot,  a  veteran  of  the  seas,  drew 
him  aside  and  expostulated  against  his  venturing,  on 
the  mere  word  of  a  stranger,  to  land  in  a  strange 
barge  on  an  unknown  shore.  "  Who  knows,  Sefior, 
what  land  this  is,  or  what  people  inhabit  it?" 

Don  Fernando  was  not  to  be  dissuaded.  Had  he 
not  believed  in  this  island  when  all  the  world  doubted  ? 
Had  he  not  sought  it  in  defiance  of  storm  and  tempest, 


3H  THE  PHANTOM  ISLAND 

and  was  he  now  to  shrink  from  its  shores  when  they 
lay  before  him  in  calm  weather?  In  a  word,  was  not 
faith  the  very  corner-stone  of  his  enterprise? 

Having  arrayed  himself,  therefore,  in  gala  dress 
befitting  the  occasion,  he  took  his  seat  in  the  barge. 
The  grand  chamberlain  seated  himself  opposite.  The 
rowers  plied  their  oars,  and  renewed  the  mournful 
old  ditty,  and  the  gorgeous  but  unwieldy  barge  moved 
slowly  through  the  water. 

The  night  closed  in  before  they  entered  the  river, 
and  swept  along  past  rock  and  promontory,  each 
guarded  by  its  tower.  At  every  post  they  were  chal 
lenged  by  the  sentinel. 

"Who  goes  there?" 

"  The  Adalantado  of  the  Seven  Cities." 

"  Welcome,   Senor  Adalantado.      Pass   on." 

Entering  the  harbor  they  rowed  close  by  an  armed 
galley  of  ancient  form.  Soldiers  with  crossbows 
patrolled  the  deck. 

"Who  goes  there?" 

"  The  Adalantado  of  the  Seven  Cities." 

"  Welcome,  Senor  Adalantado.     Pass  on." 

They  landed  at  a  broad  flight  of  stone  steps,  leading 
up  between  two  massive  towers,  and  knocked  at  the 
water-gate.  A  sentinel,  in  ancient  steel  casque,  looked 
from  the  barbecan. 

"Who  is  there?" 

"  The  Adalantado  of  the  Seven  Cities." 

"  Welcome,   Senor  Adalantado." 

The  gate  swung  open,  grating  upon  rusty  hinges. 
They  entered  between  two  rows  of  warriors  in  Gothic 
armor,  with  crossbows,  maces,  battle-axes,  and  faces 
old-fashioned  as  their  armor.  There  were  processions 
through  the  streets,  in  commemoration  of  the  landing 
of  the  seven  Bishops  and  their  followers,  and  bonfires, 
at  which  effigies  of  losel  Moors  expiated  their  invasion 
of  Christendom  by  a  kind  of  auto-da-fe.  The  groups 


ADALANTADO  OF  THE  SEVEN  CITIES    315 

round  the  fires,  uncouth  in  their  attire,  looked  like  the 
fantastic  figures  that  roam  the  streets  in  Carnival  time. 
Even  the  dames  who  gazed  down  from  Gothic  bal 
conies  hung  with  antique  tapestry,  resembled  effigies 
dressed  up  in  Christmas  mummeries.  Everything,  in 
short,  bore  the  stamp  of  former  ages,  as  if  the  world 
had  suddenly  rolled  back  for  several  centuries.  Nor 
was  this  to  be  wondered  at.  Had  not  the  Island  of 
the  Seven  Cities  been  cut  off  from  the  rest  of  the 
world  for  several  hundred  years;  and  were  not  these 
the  modes  and  customs  of  Gothic  Spain  before  it  was 
conquered  by  the  Moors  ? 

Arrived  at  the  palace  of  the  alcayde,  the  grand 
chamberlain  knocked  at  the  portal.  The  porter  looked 
through  a  wicket,  and  demanded  who  was  there. 

"  The  Adalantado  of  the  Seven  Cities." 

The  portal  was  thrown  wide  open.  The  grand 
chamberlain  led  the  way  up  a  vast,  heavily  moulded, 
marble  staircase,  and  into  a  hall  of  ceremony,  where 
was  the  alcayde  with  several  of  the  principal  digni 
taries  of  the  city,  who  had  a  marvellous  resemblance, 
in  form  and  feature,  to  the  quaint  figures  in  old 
illuminated  manuscripts. 

The  grand  chamberlain  stepped  forward  and  an 
nounced  the  name  and  title  of  the  stranger  guest,  and 
the  extraordinary  nature  of  his  mission.  The  an 
nouncement  appeared  to  create  no  extraordinary  emo 
tion  or  surprise,  but  to  be  received  as  the  anticipated 
fulfilment  of  a  prophecy. 

The  reception  of  Don  Fernando,  however,  was 
profoundly  gracious,  though  in  the  same  style  of  stately 
courtesy  which  everywhere  prevailed.  He  would  have 
produced  his  credentials,  but  this  was  courteously  de 
clined.  The  evening  was  devoted  to  high  festivity; 
the  following  day,  when  he  should  enter  the  port  with 
his  caravel,  would  be  devoted  to  business,  when  the 
credentials  would  be  received  in  due  form,  and  he 


316  THE  PHANTOM  ISLAND 

inducted  into  office  as  Adalantado  of  the  Seven 
Cities. 

Don  Fernando  was  now  conducted  through  one  of 
those  interminable  suites  of  apartments,  the  pride  of 
Spanish  palaces,  all  furnished  in  a  style  of  obsolete 
magnificence.  In  a  vast  saloon,  blazing  with  tapers, 
was  assembled  all  the  aristocracy  and  fashion  of  the 
city,  —  stately  dames  and  cavaliers,  the  very  counter 
part  of  the  figures  in  the  tapestry  which  decorated  the 
walls.  Fernando  gazed  in  silent  marvel.  It  was  a 
reflex  of  the  proud  aristocracy  of  Spain  in  the  time  of 
Roderick  the  Goth. 

The  festivities  of  the  evening  were  all  in  the  style 
of  solemn  and  antiquated  ceremonial.  There  was  a 
dance,  but  it  was  as  if  the  old  tapestry  were  put  in 
motion,  and  all  the  figures  moving  in  stately  measure 
about  the  floor.  There  was  one  exception,  and  one 
that  told  powerfully  upon  the  susceptible  Adalantado. 
The  alcayde's  daughter  —  such  a  ripe,  melting  beauty ! 
Her  dress,  it  is  true,  like  the  dresses  of  her  neighbors, 
might  have  been  worn  before  the  flood,  but  she  had 
the  black  Andalusian  eye,  a  glance  of  which,  through 
its  long  dark  lashes,  is  irresistible.  Her  voice,  too, 
her  manner,  her  undulating  movements,  all  smacked 
of  Andalusia,  and  showed  how  female  charms  may 
be  transmitted  from  age  to  age,  and  clime  to  clime, 
without  ever  going  out  of  fashion.  Those  who  know 
the  witchery  of  the  sex,  in  that  most  amorous  part  of 
amorous  old  Spain,  may  judge  of  the  fascination  to 
which  Don  Fernando  was  exposed,  as  he  joined  in 
the  dance  with  one  of  its  most  captivating  descendants. 

He  sat  beside  her  at  the  banquet !  such  an  old-world 
feast !  such  obsolete  dainties !  At  the  head  of  the  table 
the  peacock,  that  bird  of  state  and  ceremony,  was 
served  up  in  full  plumage  on  a  golden  dish.  As  Don 
Fernando  cast  his  eyes  down  the  glittering  board,  what 
a  vista  presented  itself  of  odd  heads  and  head-dresses ; 


ADALANTADO  OF  THE  SEVEN  CITIES    317 

of  formal  bearded  dignitaries  and  stately  dames,  with 
castellated  locks  and  towering  plumes!  Is  it  to  be 
wondered  at  -that  he  should  turn  with  delight  from 
these  antiquated  figures  to  the  alcayde's  daughter,  all 
smiles  and  dimples,  and  melting  looks  and  melting 
accents?  Beside,  for  I  wish  to  give  him  every  excuse 
in  my  power,  he  was  in  a  particularly  excitable 
mood  from  the  novelty  of  the  scene  before  him,  from 
this  realization  of  all  his  hopes  and  fancies,  and  from 
frequent  draughts  of  the  wine-cup  presented  to  him 
at  every  moment  by  officious  pages  during  the  banquet. 

In  a  word  —  there  is  no  concealing  the  matter  — 
before  the  evening  was  over,  Don  Fernando  was 
making  love  outright  to  the  alcayde's  daughter.  They 
had  wandered  together  to  a  moon-lit  balcony  of  the 
palace,  and  he  was  charming  her  ear  with  one  of 
those  love-ditties  with  which,  in  a  like  balcony,  he  had 
serenaded  the  beautiful  Serafina. 

The  damsel  hung  her  head  coyly.  "  Ah !  Sefior, 
these  are  flattering  words ;  but  you  cavaliers,  who  roam 
the  seas,  are  unsteady  as  its  waves.  To-morrow  you 
will  be  throned  in  state,  Adalantado  of  the  Seven  Cities ; 
and  will  think  no  more  of  the  alcayde's  daughter." 

Don  Fernando  in  the  intoxication  of  the  moment 
called  the  moon  to  witness  his  sincerity.  As  he  raised 
his  hand  in  adjuration,  the  chaste  moon  cast  a  ray 
upon  the  ring  that  sparkled  on  his  finger.  It  caught 
the  damsel's  eye.  "  Signer  Adalantado,"  said  she 
archly,  "  I  have  no  great  faith  in  the  moon,  but  give 
me  that  ring  upon  your  finger  in  pledge  of  the  truth 
of  what  you  profess." 

The  gallant  Adalantado  was  taken  by  surprise; 
there  was  no  parrying  this  sudden  appeal;  before  he 
had  time  to  reflect,  the  ring  of  the  beautiful  Serafina 
glittered  on  the  finger  of  the  alcayde's  daughter. 

At  this  eventful  moment  the  chamberlain  approached 
with  lofty  demeanor,  and  announced  that  the  barge 


3i8  THE  PHANTOM  ISLAND 

was  waiting  to  bear  him  back  to  the  caravel.  I  forbear 
to  relate  the  ceremonious  partings  with  the  alcayde 
and  his  dignitaries,  and  the  tender  farewell  of  the 
alcayde's  daughter.  He  took  his  seat  in  the  barge 
opposite  the  grand  chamberlain.  The  rowers  plied 
their  crimson  oars  in  the  same  slow  and  stately  man 
ner  to  the  cadence  of  the  same  mournful  old  ditty. 
His  brain  was  in  a  whirl  with  all  that  he  had  seen, 
and  his  heart  now  and  then  gave  him  a  twinge  as  he 
thought  of  his  temporary  infidelity  to  the  beautiful 
Serafina.  The  barge  sallied  out  into  the  sea,  but  no 
caravel  was  to  be  seen ;  doubtless  she  had  been  carried 
to  a  distance  by  the  current  of  the  river.  The  oars 
men  rowed  on;  their  monotonous  chant  had  a  lulling 
effect.  A  drowsy  influence  crept  over  Don  Fernando. 
Objects  swam  before  his  eyes.  The  oarsmen  assumed 
odd  shapes  as  in  a  dream.  The  grand  chamberlain 
grew  larger  and  larger,  and  taller  and  taller.  He  took 
off  his  huge  sombrero,  and  held  it  over  the  head  of 
Don  Fernando,  like  an  extinguisher  over  a  candle. 
The  latter  cowered  beneath  it;  he  felt  himself  sinking 
in  the  socket. 

"  Good  night !  Sefior  Adalantado  of  the  Seven 
Cities !  "  said  the  grand  chamberlain. 

The  sombrero  slowly  descended  —  Don  Fernando 
was  extinguished! 

How  long  he  remained  extinct  no  mortal  man  can 
tell.  When  he  returned  to  consciousness,  he  found 
himself  in  a  strange  cabin,  surrounded  by  strangers. 
He  rubbed  his  eyes,  and  looked  round  him  wildly. 
Where  was  he?  —  On  board  a  Portuguese  ship,  bound 
to  Lisbon.  How  came  he  there  ?  —  He  had  been 
taken  senseless  from  a  wreck  drifting  about  the  ocean. 

Don  Fernando  was  more  and  more  confounded  and 
perplexed.  He  recalled,  one  by  one,  everything  that 
had  happened  to  him  in  the  Island  of  the  Seven  Cities, 
until  he  had  been  extinguished  by  the  sombrero  of  the 


ADALANTADO  OF  THE  SEVEN  CITIES    319 

grand  chamberlain.  But  what  had  happened  to  him 
since?  What  had  become  of  his  caravel?  Was  it 
the  wreck  of  her  on  which  he  had  been  found  floating? 

The  people  about  him  could  give  no  information  on 
the  subject.  He  entreated  them  to  take  him  to  the 
Island  of  the  Seven  Cities,  which  could  not  be  far  off ; 
told  them  all  that  had  befallen  him  there;  that  he  had 
but  to  land  to  be  received  as  Adalantado;  when  he 
would  reward  them  magnificently  for  their  services. 

They  regarded  his  words  as  the  ravings  of  delirium, 
and  in  their  honest  solicitude  for  the  restoration  of  his 
reason,  administered  such  rough  remedies  that  he 
was  fain  to  drop  the  subject  and  observe  a  cautious 
taciturnity. 

At  length  they  arrived  in  the  Tagus,  and  anchored 
before  the  famous  city  of  Lisbon.  Don  Fernando 
sprang  joyfully  on  shore,  and  hastened  to  his  ancestral 
mansion.  A  strange  porter  opened  the  door,  who 
knew  nothing  of  him  or  his  family ;  no  people  of  the 
name  had  inhabited  the  house  for  many  a  year. 

He  sought  the  mansion  of  Don  Ramiro.  He  ap 
proached  the  balcony  beneath  which  he  had  bidden 
farewell  to  Serafina.  Did  his  eyes  deceive  him  ?  No ! 
There  was  Serafina  herself  among  the  flowers  in  the 
balcony.  He  raised  his  arms  toward  her  with  an  ex 
clamation  of  rapture.  She  cast  upon  him  a  look  of 
indignation,  and,  hastily  retiring,  closed  the  casement 
with  a  slam  that  testified  her  displeasure. 

Could  she  have  heard  of  his  flirtation  with  the  al- 
cayde's  daughter?  But  that  was  mere  transient  gal 
lantry.  A  moment's  interview  would  dispel  every 
doubt  of  his  constancy. 

He  rang  at  the  door ;  as  it  was  opened  by  the  porter 
he  rushed  up-stairs;  sought  the  well-known  chamber, 
and  threw  himself  at  the  feet  of  Serafina.  She  started 
back  with  affright,  and  took  refuge  in  the  arms  of  a 
youthful  cavalier. 


320  THE  PHANTOM  ISLAND 

"  What  mean  you,  Senor,"  cried  the  latter,  "  by 
this  intrusion  ?  " 

"  What  right  have  you  to  ask  the  question  ? " 
demanded  Don  Fernando  fiercely. 

"  The  right  of  an  affianced  suitor !  " 

Don  Fernando  started  and  turned  pale.  "  Oh, 
Serafina!  Serafina!"  cried  he,  in  a  tone  of  agony; 
"  is  this  thy  plighted  constancy?  " 

"  Serafina  ?  What  mean  you  by  Serafina,  Senor  ? 
If  this  be  the  lady  you  intend,  her  name  is  Maria." 

"  May  I  not  believe  my  senses  ?  May  I  not  believe 
my  heart?"  cried  Don  Fernando.  "  Is  not  this  Sera 
fina  Alvarez,  the  original  of  yon  portrait,  which,  less 
fickle  than  herself,  still  smiles  on  me  from  the  wall?  " 

"  Holy  Virgin ! "  cried  the  young  lady,  casting  her 
eyes  upon  the  portrait.  "  He  is  talking  of  my  great- 
grandmother  ! " 

An  explanation  ensued,  if  that  could  be  called  an 
explanation  which  plunged  the  unfortunate  Fernando 
into  tenfold  perplexity.  If  he  might  believe  his  eyes, 
he  saw  before  him  his  beloved  Serafina;  if  he  might 
believe  his  ears,  it  was  merely  her  hereditary  form 
and  features,  perpetuated  in  the  person  of  her  great- 
granddaughter. 

His  brain  began  to  spin.  He  sought  the  office  of 
the  Minister  of  Marine,  and  made  a  report  of  his  ex 
pedition,  and  of  the  Island  of  the  Seven  Cities,  which 
he  had  so  fortunately  discovered.  Nobody  knew  any 
thing  of  such  an  expedition,  or  such  an  island.  He 
declared  that  he  had  undertaken  the  enterprise  under 
a  formal  contract  with  the  crown,  and  had  received 
a  regular  commission,  constituting  him  Adalantado. 
This  must  be  matter  of  record,  and  he  insisted  loudly, 
that  the  books  of  the  department  should  be  consulted. 
The  wordy  strife  at  length  attracted  the  attention  of 
an  old  gray-headed  clerk,  who  sat  perched  on  a  high 
stool,  at  a  high  desk,  with  iron-rimmed  spectacles  on 


ADALANTADO  OF  THE  SEVEN  CITIES    321 

the  top  of  a  thin,  pinched  nose,  copying  records  into 
an  enormous  folio.  He  had  wintered  and  summered 
in  the  department  for  a  great  part  of  a  century,  until 
he  had  almost  grown  to  be  a  piece  of  the  desk  at 
which  he  sat;  his  memory  was  a  mere  index  of  official 
facts  and  documents,  and  his  brain  was  little  better 
than  red  tape  and  parchment.  After  peering  down  for 
a  time  from  his  lofty  perch,  and  ascertaining  the  matter 
in  controversy,  he  put  his  pen  behind  his  ear,  and  de 
scended.  He  remembered  to  have  heard  something 
from  his  predecessor  about  an  expedition  of  the  kind 
in  question,  but  then  it  had  sailed  during  the  reign  of 
Don  loam  II.,  and  he  had  been  dead  at  least  a  hundred 
years.  To  put  the  matter  beyond  dispute,  however, 
the  archives  of  the  Torre  do  Tombo,  that  sepulchre 
of  old  Portuguese  documents,  were  diligently  searched, 
and  a  record  was  found  of  a  contract  between  the 
crown  and  one  Fernando  de  Ulmo,  for  the  discovery 
of  the  Island  of  the  Seven  Cities,  and  of  a  commission 
secured  to  him  as  Adalantado  of  the  country  he  might 
discover. 

"  There ! "  cried  Don  Fernando,  triumphantly, 
"  there  you  have  proof,  before  your  own  eyes,  of 
what  I  have  said.  I  am  the  Fernando  de  Ulmo 
specified  in  that  record.  I  have  discovered  the 
Island  of  the  Seven  Cities,  and  am  entitled  to  be 
Adalantado,  according  to  contract." 

The  story  of  Don  Fernando  had  certainly,  what  is 
pronounced  the  best  of  historical  foundation,  docu 
mentary  evidence;  but  when  a  man,  in  the  bloom  of 
youth,  talked  of  events  that  had  taken  place  above  a 
century  previously,  as  having  happened  to  himself,  it 
is  no  wonder  that  he  was  set  down  for  a  madman. 

The  old  clerk  looked  at  him  from  above  and  be 
low  his  spectacles,  shrugged  his  shoulders,  stroked  his 
chin,  reascended  his  lofty  stool,  took  the  pen  from  be 
hind  his  ears,  and  resumed  his  daily  and  eternal  task, 


322  THE  PHANTOM  ISLAND 

copying  records  into  the  fiftieth  volume  of  a  series  of 
gigantic  folios.  The  other  clerks  winked  at  each  other 
shrewdly,  and  dispersed  to  their  several  places,  and 
poor  Don  Fernando,  thus  left  to  himself,  flung  out  of 
the  office,  almost  driven  wild  by  these  repeated 
perplexities. 

In  the  confusion  of  his  mind,  he  instinctively  re 
paired  to  the  mansion  of  Alvarez,  but  it  was  barred 
against  him.  To  break  the  delusion  under  which  the 
youth  apparently  labored,  and  to  convince  him  that  the 
Serafina  about  whom  he  raved  was  really  dead,  he 
was  conducted  to  her  tomb.  There  she  lay,  a  stately 
matron,  cut  out  in  alabaster ;  and  there  lay  her  husband 
beside  her;  a  portly  cavalier,  in  armor;  and  there 
knelt,  on  each  side,  the  effigies  of  a  numerous  progeny, 
proving  that  she  had  been  a  fruitful  vine.  Even  the 
very  monument  gave  evidence  of  the  lapse  of  time; 
the  hands  of  her  husband,  folded  as  if  in  prayer,  had 
lost  their  fingers,  and  the  face  of  the  once  lovely 
Serafina  was  without  a  nose. 

Don  Fernando  felt  a  transient  glow  of  indignation 
at  beholding  this  monumental  proof  of  the  inconstancy 
of  his  mistress;  but  who  could  expect  a  mistress  to 
remain  constant  during  a  whole  century  of  absence? 
And  what  right  had  he  to  rail  about  constancy,  after 
what  had  passed  between  himself  and  the  alcayde's 
daughter?  The  unfortunate  cavalier  performed  one 
pious  act  of  tender  devotion;  he  had  the  alabaster 
nose  of  Serafina  restored  by  a  skilful  statuary,  and 
then  tore  himself  from  the  tomb. 

He  could  now  no  longer  doubt  the  fact  that,  some 
how  or  other,  he  had  skipped  over  a  whole  century, 
during  the  night  he  had  spent  at  the  Island  of  the 
Seven  Cities ;  and  he  was  now  as  complete  a  stranger 
in  his  native  city,  as  if  he  had  never  been  there.  A 
thousand  times  did  he  wish  himself  back  to  that  won 
derful  island,  with  its  antiquated  banquet  halls,  where 


ADALANTADO  OF  THE  SEVEN  CITIES    323 

he  had  been  so  courteously  received;  and  now  that 
the  once  young  and  beautiful  Serafina  was  nothing 
but  a  great-grandmother  in  marble,  with  generations 
of  descendants,  a  thousand  times  would  he  recall  the 
melting  black  eyes  of  the  alcayde's  daughter,  who 
doubtless,  like  himself,  was  still  flourishing  in  fresh 
juvenility,  and  breathe  a  secret  wish  that  he  was  seated 
by  her  side. 

He  would  at  once  have  set  on  foot  another  expedi 
tion,  at  his  own  expense,  to  cruise  in  search  of  the 
sainted  island,  but  his  means  were  exhausted.  He 
endeavored  to  rouse  others  to  the  enterprise,  setting 
forth  the  certainty  of  profitable  results,  of  which  his 
own  experience  furnished  such  unquestionable  proof. 
Alas !  no  one  would  give  faith  to  his  tale ;  but  looked 
upon  it  as  the  feverish  dream  of  a  shipwrecked  man. 
He  persisted  in  his  efforts ;  holding  forth  in  all  places 
and  all  companies,  until  he  became  an  object  of  jest 
and  jeer  to  the  light-minded,  who  mistook  his  earnest 
enthusiasm  for  a  proof  of  insanity ;  and  the  very  chil 
dren  in  the  streets  bantered  him  with  the  title  of  "  The 
Adalantado  of  the  Seven  Cities." 

Finding  all  efforts  in  vain,  in  his  native  city  of 
Lisbon,  he  took  shipping  for  the  Canaries,  as  being 
nearer  the  latitude  of  his  former  cruise,  and  inhabited 
by  people  given  to  nautical  adventure.  Here  he  found 
ready  listeners  to  his  story;  for  the  old  pilots  and 
mariners  of  those  parts  were  notorious  island-hunters, 
and  devout  believers  in  all  the  wonders  of  the  seas. 
Indeed,  one  and  all  treated  his  adventure  as  a  common 
occurrence,  and  turning  to  each  other,  with  a  sagacious 
nod  of  the  head,  observed,  "  He  has  been  at  the  Island 
of  St.  Brandan." 

They  then  went  on  to  inform  him  of  that  great 
marvel  and  enigma  of  the  ocean;  of  its  repeated  ap 
pearance  to  the  inhabitants  of  their  islands;  and  of 
the  many  but  ineffectual  expeditions  that  had  been 


324  THE  PHANTOM  ISLAND 

made  in  search  of  it.  They  took  him  to  a  promontory 
of  the  island  of  Palma,  whence  the  shadowy  St.  Bran- 
dan  had  oftenest  been  descried,  and  they  pointed  out 
the  very  tract  in  the  west  where  its  mountains  had  been 
seen. 

Don  Fernando  listened  with  rapt  attention.  He  had 
no  longer  a  doubt  that  this  mysterious  and  fugacious 
island  must  be  the  same  with  that  of  the  Seven  Cities ; 
and  that  some  supernatural  influence  connected  with 
it  had  operated  upon  himself,  and  made  the  events  of  a 
night  occupy  the  space  of  a  century. 

He  endeavored,  but  in  vain,  to  rouse  the  islanders  to 
another  attempt  at  discovery;  they  had  given  up  the 
phanton  island  as  indeed  inaccessible.  Fernando, 
however,  was  not  to  be  discouraged.  The  idea  wore 
itself  deeper  and  deeper  in  his  mind,  until  it  became 
the  engrossing  subject  of  his  thoughts  and  object  of 
his  being.  Every  morning  he  would  repair  to  the 
promontory  of  Palma,  and  sit  there  throughout  the 
livelong  day,  in  hopes  of  seeing  the  fairy  mountains  of 
St.  Brandan  peering  above  the  horizon ;  every  even 
ing  he  returned  to  his  home,  a  disappointed  man,  but 
ready  to  resume  his  post  on  the  following  morning. 

His  assiduity  was  all  in  vain.  He  grew  gray  in  his 
ineffectual  attempt;  and  was  at  length  found  dead  at 
his  post.  His  grave  is  still  shown  in  the  island  of 
Palma,  and  a  cross  is  erected  on  the  spot  where  he 
used  to  sit  and  look  out  upon  the  sea,  in  hopes  of  the 
reappearance  of  the  phantom  island. 

NOTE.  —  For  various  particulars  concerning  the 
Island  of  St.  Brandan  and  the  Island  of  the  Seven 
Cities,  those  ancient  problems  of  the  ocean,  the  curious 
reader  is  referred  to  articles  under  those  heads  in  the 
Appendix  to  the  "  Life  of  Columbus." 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  THE  ALHAMBRA    325 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  THE  ALHAMBRA 

I  HAVE  already  given  to  the  world  some  anecdotes  of 
a  summer's  residence  in  the  old  Moorish  palace  of  the 
Alhambra.  It  was  a  dreamy  sojourn,  during  which 
I  lived,  as  it  were,  in  the  midst  of  an  Arabian  tale,  and 
shut  my  eyes  as  much  as  possible  to  everything  that 
should  call  me  back  to  every-day  life.  If  there  is  any 
country  in  Europe  where  one  can  do  so,  it  is  among 
these  magnificent  but  semi-barbaric  ruins  of  poor,  wild, 
legendary,  romantic  Spain.  In  the  silent  and  deserted 
halls  of  the  Alhambra,  surrounded  with  the  insignia  of 
regal  sway,  and  the  vivid,  though  dilapidated  traces 
of  Oriental  luxury,  I  was  in  the  stronghold  of  Moorish 
story,  where  everything  spoke  of  the  palmy  days  of 
Granada  when  under  the  dominion  of  the  crescent. 

Much  of  the  literature  of  Spain  turns  upon  the  wars 
of  the  Moors  and  Christians,  and  consists  of  traditional 
ballads  and  tales  or  romances,  about  the  "  buenas  an- 
danzas,"  and  "  grandes  hechos,"  the  "  lucky  adven 
tures,"  and  "  great  exploits  "  of  the  warriors  of  yore. 
It  is  worthy  of  remark,  that  many  of  these  lays  which 
sing  of  prowess  and  magnanimity  in  war,  and  tender 
ness  and  fidelity  in  love,  relate  as  well  to  Moorish  as  to 
Spanish  cavaliers.  The  lapse  of  peaceful  centuries 
has  extinguished  the  rancor  of  ancient  hostility;  and 
the  warriors  of  Granada,  once  the  objects  of  bigot 
detestation,  are  now  often  held  up  by  Spanish  poets  as 
mirrors  of  chivalric  virtue. 

None  have  been  the  theme  of  higher  eulogy  than 
the  illustrious  line  of  the  Abencerrages,  who  in  the 
proud  days  of  Moslem  domination  were  the  soul  of 
everything  noble  and  chivalric.  The  veterans  of  the 
family  sat  in  the  royal  council,  and  were  foremost  in 


326    RECOLLECTIONS  OF  THE  ALHAMBRA 

devising  heroic  enterprises  to  carry  dismay  into  the 
Christian  territories;  and  what  the  veterans  devised 
the  young  men  of  the  name  were  foremost  to  execute. 
In  all  adventures,  enterprises,  and  hair-breadth  hazards, 
the  Abencerrages  were  sure  to  win  the  brightest  lau 
rels.  In  the  tilt  and  tourney,  in  the  riding  at  the 
ring,  the  daring  bull-fight,  and  all  other  recreations 
which  bore  an  affinity  to  war,  the  Abencerrages  carried 
off  the  palm.  None  equalled  them  for  splendor  of 
array,  for  noble  bearing,  and  glorious  horsemanship. 
Their  open-handed  munificence  made  them  the  idols 
of  the  people;  their  magnanimity  and  perfect  faith 
gained  the  admiration  of  the  high-minded.  Never  did 
they  decry  the  merits  of  a  rival,  nor  betray  the  confid- 
ings  of  a  friend ;  and  the  word  of  an  Abencerrage  was 
a  guaranty  never  to  be  doubted. 

And  then  their  devotion  to  the  fair!  Never  did 
Moorish  beauty  consider  the  fame  of  her  charms  es 
tablished,  until  she  had  an  Abencerrage  for  a  lover; 
and  never  did  an  Abencerrage  prove  recreant  to  his 
vows.  Lovely  Granada !  City  of  delights !  Who  ever 
bore  the  favors  of  thy  dames  more  proudly  on  their 
casques,  or  championed  them  more  gallantly  in  the 
chivalrous  tilts  of  the  Vivarambla  ?  Or  who  ever  made 
thy  moon-lit  balconies,  thy  gardens  of  myrtles  and 
roses,  of  oranges,  citrons,  and  pomegranates,  respond 
to  more  tender  serenades? 

Such  were  the  fancies  I  used  to  conjure  up  as  I  sat 
in  the  beautiful  hall  of  the  Abencerrages,  celebrated 
in  the  tragic  story  of  that  devoted  race,  where  thirty- 
six  of  its  bravest  cavaliers  were  treacherously  sacrificed 
to  appease  the  jealous  fears  of  a  tyrant.  The  fountain 
which  once  ran  red  with  their  blood,  throws  up  a 
sparkling  jet,  and  spreads  a  dewy  freshness  through 
the  hall;  but  a  deep  stain  on  the  marble  pavement  is 
still  pointed  out  as  a  sanguinary  record  of  the  massacre. 
The  truth  of  the  record  has  been  called  in  question, 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  THE  ALHAMBRA    327 

but  I  regarded  it  with  the  same  determined  faith  with 
which  I  contemplated  the  stains  of  Rizzio's  blood  on 
the  floor  of  the  palace  of  Holy  rood.  I  thank  no  one 
for  enlightening  my  credulity  on  points  of  poetical 
belief.  It  is  like  robbing  the  statue  of  Memnon  of  its 
mysterious  music.  Dispel  historical  illusions,  and  there 
is  an  end  to  half  the  charms  of  travelling. 

The  hall  of  the  Abencerrages  is  connected  moreover 
with  the  recollection  of  one  of  the  sweetest  evenings 
and  sweetest  scenes  I  ever  enjoyed  in  Spain.  It  was  a 
beautiful  summer  evening,  when  the  moon  shone  down 
into  the  Court  of  Lions,  lighting  up  its  sparkling  foun 
tain.  I  was  seated  with  a  few  companions  in  the  hall 
in  question,  listening  to  those  traditional  ballads  and 
romances  in  which  the  Spaniards  delight.  They  were 
sung  to  the  accompaniment  of  the  guitar,  by  one  of  the 
most  gifted  and  fascinating  beings  that  I  ever  met  with 
even  among  the  fascinating  daughters  of  Spain.  She 
was  young  and  beautiful,  and  light  and  ethereal,  full 
of  fire,  and  spirit,  and  pure  enthusiasm.  She  wore 
the  fanciful  Andalusian  dress,  touched  the  guitar  with 
speaking  eloquence,  improvised  with  wonderful  fa 
cility;  and,  as  she  became  excited  by  her  theme,  or  by 
the  rapt  attention  of  her  auditors,  would  pour  forth,  in 
the  richest  and  most  melodious  strains,  a  succession  of 
couplets,  full  of  striking  description,  or  stirring  narra 
tive,  and  composed,  as  I  was  assured,  at  the  moment. 
Most  of  these  were  suggested  by  the  place,  and  related 
to  the  ancient  glories  of  Granada  and  the  prowess  of 
her  chivalry.  The  Abencerrages  were  her  favorite 
heroes ;  she  felt  a  woman's  admiration  of  their  gallant 
courtesy  and  high-souled  honor;  and  it  was  touching 
and  inspiring  to  hear  the  praises  of  that  generous  but 
devoted  race  chanted  in  this  fated  hall  of  their  calamity, 
by  the  lips  of  Spanish  beauty. 

Among  the  subjects  of  which  she  treated,  was  a  tale 
of  Moslem  honor  and  old-fashioned  courtesy,  which 


328    RECOLLECTIONS  OF  THE  ALHAMBRA 

made  a  strong  impression  on  me.  She  disclaimed  all 
merit  of  invention,  however,  and  said  she  had  merely 
dilated  into  verse  a  popular  tradition;  and,  indeed,  I 
have  since  found  the  main  facts  inserted  at  the  end  of 
Conde's  "  History  of  the  Domination  of  the  Arabs," 
and  the  story  itself  embodied  in  the  form  of  an  episode 
in  the  "  Diana  "  of  Montemayor.  From  these  sources 
I  have  drawn  it  forth,  and  endeavored  to  shape  it  ac 
cording  to  my  recollection  of  the  version  of  the  beauti 
ful  minstrel;  but  alas!  what  can  supply  the  want  of 
that  voice,  that  look,  that  form,  that  action,  which 
gave  magical  effect  to  her  chant,  and  held  every  one 
rapt  in  breathless  admiration!  Should  this  mere 
travestie  of  her  inspired  numbers  ever  meet  her  eye, 
in  her  stately  abode  at  Granada,  may  it  meet  with  that 
indulgence  which  belongs  to  her  benignant  nature. 
Happy  should  I  be,  if  it  could  awaken  in  her  bosom 
one  kind  recollection  of  the  stranger,  for  whose  grati 
fication  she  did  not  think  it  beneath  her  to  exert  those 
fascinating  powers,  in  the  moon-lit  halls  of  the 
Alhambra, 

THE  ABENCERRAGE 

On  the  summit  of  a  craggy  hill,  a  spur  of  the  moun 
tains  of  Ronda,  stands  the  castle  of  Allora;  now  a 
mere  ruin,  infested  by  bats  and  owlets ;  but  in  old  times, 
a  strong  border-hold  which  kept  watch  upon  the  war 
like  kingdom  of  Granada,  and  held  the  Moors  in  check. 
It  was  a  post  always  confided  to  some  well-tried  com 
mander,  and  at  the  time  of  which  we  treat  was  held 
by  Rodrigo  de  Narvaez,  alcayde,  or  military  governor 
of  Antiquera.  It  was  a  frontier  post  of  his  command ; 
but  he  passed  most  of  his  time  there,  because  its  situ 
ation  on  the  borders  gave  frequent  opportunity  for 
those  adventurous  exploits  in  which  the  Spanish  chiv 
alry  delighted. 


THE  ABENCERRAGE  329 

He  was  a  veteran,  famed  among  both  Moors  and 
Christians,  not  only  for  deeds  of  arms,  but  for  that 
magnanimous  courtesy  which  should  ever  be  entwined 
with  the  stern  virtues  of  the  soldier. 

His  garrison  consisted  of  fifty  chosen  men,  well 
appointed  and  well  mounted,  with  which  he  maintained 
such  vigilant  watch  that  nothing  could  escape  his  eye. 
While  some  remained  on  guard  in  the  castle,  he  would 
sally  forth  with  others,  prowling  about  the  highways, 
the  paths  and  defiles  of  the  mountains  by  day  and 
night,  and  now  and  then  making  a  daring  foray  into 
the  very  Vega  of  Granada. 

On  a  fair  and  beautiful  night  in  summer,  when  the 
moon  was  in  the  full,  and  the  freshness  of  the  evening 
breeze  had  tempered  the  heat  of  day,  the  alcayde, 
with  nine  of  his  cavaliers,  was  going  the  rounds  of  the 
mountains  in  quest  of  adventures.  They  rode  silently 
and  cautiously,  for  it  was  a  night  to  tempt  others 
abroad,  and  they  might  be  overheard  by  Moorish  scout 
or  traveller ;  they  kept  along  ravines  and  hollow  ways, 
moreover,  lest  they  should  be  betrayed  by  the  glitter 
ing  of  the  moon  upon  their  armor.  Coming  to  a  fork 
in  the  road,  the  alcayde  ordered  five  of  his  cavaliers 
to  take  one  of  the  branches,  while  he,  with  the  remain 
ing  four,  would  take  the  other.  Should  either  party  be 
in  danger,  the  blast  of  a  horn  was  to  be  the  signal  for 
succor.  The  party  of  five  had  not  proceeded  far,  when, 
in  passing  through  a  defile,  they  heard  the  voice  of  a 
man  singing.  Concealing  themselves  among  trees, 
they  awaited  his  approach.  The  moon,  which  left  the 
grove  in  shadow,  shone  full  upon  his  person,  as  he 
slowly  advanced,  mounted  on  a  dapple-gray  steed  of 
powerful  frame  and  generous  spirit,  and  magnificently 
caparisoned.  He  was  a  Moorish  cavalier  of  noble  de 
meanor  and  graceful  carriage,  arrayed  in  a  marlota,  or 
tunic,  and  an  albornoz  of  crimson  damask  fringed  with 
gold.  His  Tunisian  turban,  of  many  folds,  was  of 


330    RECOLLECTIONS  OF  THE  ALHAMBRA 

striped  silk  and  cotton,  bordered  with  a  golden  fringe; 
at  his  girdle  hung  a  Damascus  scimitar,  with  loops  and 
tassels  of  silk  and  gold.  On  his  left  arm  he  bore  an 
ample  target,  and  his  right  hand  grasped  a  long  double- 
pointed  lance.  Apparently  dreaming  of  no  danger,  he 
sat  negligently  on  his  steed,  gazing  on  the  moon,  and 
singing,  with  a  sweet  and  manly  voice,  a  Moorish  love- 
ditty. 

Just  opposite  the  grove  where  the  cavaliers  were 
concealed,  the  horse  turned  aside  to  drink  at  a  small 
fountain  in  a  rock  beside  the  road.  His  rider  threw 
the  reins  on  his  neck  to  let  him  drink  at  his  ease,  and 
continued  his  song. 

The  cavaliers  whispered  with  each  other.  Charmed 
with  the  gallant  and  gentle  appearance  of  the  Moor, 
they  determined  not  to  harm,  but  capture  him;  an 
easy  task,  as  they  supposed,  in  his  negligent  mood. 
Rushing  forth,  therefore,  they  thought  to  surround, 
and  take  him  by  surprise.  Never  were  men  more  mis 
taken.  To  gather  up  his  reins,  wheel  round  his  steed, 
brace  his  buckler,  and  couch  his  lance,  was  the  work 
of  an  instant,  and  there  he  sat,  fixed  like  a  castle  in 
his  saddle. 

The  cavaliers  checked  their  steeds,  and  reconnoitred 
him  warily,  loath  to  come  to  an  encounter  which  must 
prove  fatal  to  him. 

The  Moor  now  held  a  parley.  "  If  ye  be  true  knights, 
and  seek  for  honorable  fame,  come  on  singly,  and  I  will 
meet  each  in  succession;  if  ye  be  mere  lurkers  of  the 
road,  intent  on  spoil,  come  all  at  once,  and  do  your 
worst." 

The  cavaliers  communed  together  for  a  moment, 
when  one,  parting  from  the  others,  advanced.  "  Al 
though  no  law  of  chivalry,"  said  he,  "  obliges  us  to 
risk  the  loss  of  a  prize,  when  fairly  in  our  power,  yet 
we  willingly  grant  as  a  courtesy  what  we  might  refuse 
as  a  right.  Valiant  Moor,  defend  thyself !  " 


THE  ABENCERRAGE  331 

So  saying,  he  wheeled,  took  proper  distance,  couched 
his  lance,  and  putting  spurs  to  his  horse,  made  at  the 
stranger.  The  latter  met  him  in  mid  career,  trans 
pierced  him  with  his  lance,  and  threw  him  from  his 
saddle.  A  second  and  a  third  succeeded,  but  were  un 
horsed  with  equal  facility,  and  thrown  to  the  earth, 
severely  wounded.  The  remaining  two,  seeing  their 
comrades  thus  roughly  treated,  forgot  all  compact  of 
courtesy,  and  charged  both  at  once  upon  the  Moor. 
He  parried  the  thrust  of  one,  but  was  wounded  by  the 
other  in  the  thigh,  and  in  the  shock  and  confusion 
dropped  his  lance.  Thus  disarmed,  and  closely  pressed, 
he  pretended  to  fly,  and  was  hotly  pursued.  Having 
drawn  the  two  cavaliers  some  distance  from  the  spot, 
he  wheeled  short  about,  with  one  of  those  dexterous 
movements  for  which  the  Moorish  horsemen  were  re 
nowned;  passed  swiftly  between  them,  swung  him 
self  down  from  his  saddle,  so  as  to  catch  up  his  lance, 
then,  lightly  replacing  himself,  turned  to  renew  the 
combat. 

Seeing  him  thus  fresh  for  the  encounter,  as  if  just 
issued  from  his  tent,  one  of  the  cavaliers  put  his  lips 
to  his  horn,  and  blew  a  blast,  that  soon  brought  the 
alcayde  and  his  four  companions  to  the  spot. 

Narvaez,  seeing  three  of  his  cavaliers  extended  on 
the  earth,  and  two  others  hotly  engaged  with  the  Moor, 
was  struck  with  admiration,  and  coveted  a  contest  with 
so  accomplished  a  warrior.  Interfering  in  the  fight, 
he  called  upon  his  followers  to  desist,  and  with  courte 
ous  words  invited  the  Moor  to  a  more  equal  combat. 
The  challenge  was  readily  accepted.  For  some  time 
the  contest  was  doubtful,  and  the  alcayde  had  need  of 
all  his  skill  and  strength  to  ward  off  the  blows  of  his 
antagonist.  The  Moor,  however,  exhausted  by  previ 
ous  fighting,  and  by  loss  of  blood,  no  longer  sat  his 
horse  firmly,  nor  managed  him  with  his  wonted  skill. 
Collecting  all  his  strength  for  a  last  assault,  he  rose 


332    RECOLLECTIONS  OF  THE  ALHAMBRA 

in  his  stirrups,  and  made  a  violent  thrust  with  his  lance ; 
the  alcayde  received  it  upon  his  shield,  and  at  the  same 
time  wounded  the  Moor  in  the  right  arm ;  then  closing, 
in  the  shock,  grasped  him  in  his  arms,  dragged  him 
from  his  saddle,  and  fell  with  him  to  the  earth ;  when 
putting  his  knee  upon  his  breast,  and  his  dagger  to 
his  throat,  "  Cavalier,"  exclaimed  he,  "  render  thyself 
my  prisoner,  for  thy  life  is  in  my  hands!  " 

"  Kill  me,  rather,"  replied  the  Moor,  "  for  death 
would  be  less  grievous  than  loss  of  liberty." 

The  alcayde,  however,  with  the  clemency  of  the 
truly  brave,  assisted  him  to  rise,  ministered  to  his 
wounds  with  his  own  hands,  and  had  him  con 
veyed  with  great  care  to  the  castle  of  Allora.  His 
wounds  in  a  few  days  were  nearly  cured ;  but  the  deep 
est  had  been  inflicted  on  his  spirit.  He  was  constantly 
buried  in  a  profound  melancholy. 

The  alcayde,  who  had  conceived  a  great  regard  for 
him,  treated  him  more  as  a  friend  than  a  captive,  and 
tried  in  every  way  to  cheer  him,  but  in  vain;  he  was 
always  sad  and  moody,  and,  when  on  the  battlements 
of  the  castle,  would  keep  his  eyes  turned  to  the  south, 
with  a  fixed  and  wistful  gaze. 

"How  is  this?"  exclaimed  the  alcayde,  reproach 
fully,  "  that  you,  who  were  so  hardy  and  fearless  in 
the  field,  should  lose  all  spirit  when  a  captive.  If  any 
secret  grief  preys  on  your  heart,  confide  it  to  me,  as 
to  a  friend,  and  I  promise  on  the  faith  of  a  cavalier  that 
you  shall  have  no  cause  to  repent  the  disclosure." 

The  Moorish  knight  kissed  the  hand  of  the  alcayde. 
"  Noble  cavalier,"  said  he,  "  that  I  am  cast  down  in 
spirit,  is  not  from  my  wounds,  which  are  slight,  nor 
from  my  captivity,  for  your  kindness  has  robbed  it  of 
all  gloom;  nor  from  my  defeat,  for  to  be  conquered 
by  so  accomplished  and  renowned  a  cavalier,  is  no  dis 
grace.  But  to  explain  the  cause  of  my  grief,  it  is 
necessary  to  give  some  particulars  of  my  story;  and 


THE  ABENCERRAGE  333 

this  I  am  moved  to  do  by  the  sympathy  you  have  mani 
fested  towards  me,  and  the  magnanimity  that  shines 
through  all  your  actions. 

"  Know,  then,  that  my  name  is  Abendaraez,  and  that 
I  am  of  the  noble  but  unfortunate  line  of  the  Abencer- 
rages.  You  have  doubtless  heard  of  the  destruction 
that  fell  upon  our  race.  Charged  with  treasonable 
designs,  of  which  they  were  entirely  innocent,  many 
of  them  were  beheaded,  the  rest  banished;  so  that 
not  an  Abencerrage  was  permitted  to  remain  in  Gra 
nada,  excepting  my  father  and  my  uncle,  whose  inno 
cence  was  proved,  even  to  the  satisfaction  of  their 
persecutors.  It  was  decreed,  however,  that,  should 
they  have  children,  the  sons  should  be  educated  at  a 
distance  from  Granada,  and  the  daughters  should  be 
married  out  of  the  kingdom. 

"  Conformably  to  this  decree,  I  was  sent,  while  yet 
an  infant,  to  be  reared  in  the  fortress  of  Cartama,  the 
alcayde  of  which  was  an  ancient  friend  of  my  father. 
He  had  no  children,  and  received  me  into  his  family 
as  his  own  child,  treating  me  with  the  kindness  and 
affection  of  a  father ;  and  I  grew  up  in  the  belief  that 
he  really  was  such.  A  few  years  afterward,  his  wife 
gave  birth  to  a  daughter,  but  his  tenderness  toward 
me  continued  undiminished.  I  thus  grew  up  with 
Xarisa,  for  so  the  infant  daughter  of  the  alcayde  was 
called,  as  her  own  brother.  I  beheld  her  charms  un 
folding,  as  it  were,  leaf  by  leaf,  like  the  morning  rose, 
each  moment  disclosing  fresh  sweetness  and  .beauty, 
and  thought  the  growing  passion  which  I  felt  for  her 
was  mere  fraternal  affection. 

"  At  length  one  day  I  accidentally  overheard  a  con 
versation  between  the  alcayde  and  his  confidential 
domestic,  of  which  I  found  myself  the  subject. 

"  In  this  I  learnt  the  secret  of  my  real  parentage, 
which  the  alcayde  had  withheld  from  me  as  long  as 
possible,  through  reluctance  to  inform  me  of  my  being 


334    RECOLLECTIONS  OF  THE  ALHAMBRA 

of  a  proscribed  and  unlucky  race.  It  was  time  now, 
he  thought,  to  apprise  me  of  the  truth,  that  I  might 
adopt  a  career  in  life. 

"  I  retired  without  letting  it  be  perceived  that  I  had 
overheard  the  conversation.  The  intelligence  it  con 
veyed  would  have  overwhelmed  me  at  an  earlier  period ; 
but  now  the  intimation  that  Xarisa  was  not  my  sister, 
operated  like  magic.  In  an  instant  the  brotherly  affec 
tion  with  which  my  heart  at  times  had  throbbed  almost 
to  excess,  was  transformed  into  ardent  love. 

"  I  sought  Xarisa  in  the  garden,  where  I  found  her 
in  a  bower  of  jessamines,  arranging  her  beautiful  hair 
in  the  mirror  of  a  crystal  fountain.  I  ran  to  her  with 
open  arms,  and  was  received  with  a  sister's  embraces; 
upbraiding  me  for  leaving  her  so  long  alone. 

"  We  seated  ourselves  by  the  fountain,  and  I  has 
tened  to  reveal  the  secret  conversation  I  had  overheard. 

"  '  Alas ! '  cried  she,  '  then  our  happiness  is  at  an 
end!' 

"  '  How ! '  cried  I,  *  wilt  thou  cease  to  love  me  be 
cause  I  am  not  thy  brother  ? ' 

"  '  Alas,  no ! '  replied  she,  gently  withdrawing  from 
my  embrace,  '  but  when  it  is  once  made  known  we  are 
not  brother  and  sister,  we  shall  no  longer  be  permitted 
to  be  thus  always  together.' 

"  In  fact,  from  that  moment  our  intercourse  took 
a  new  character.  We  met  often  at  the  fountain  among 
the  jessamines,  but  Xarisa  no  longer  advanced  with 
open  arms  to  meet  me.  She  became  reserved  and 
silent,  and  would  blush,  and  cast  down  her  eyes,  when 
I  seated  myself  beside  her.  My  heart  became  a  prey 
to  the  thousand  doubts  and  fears  that  ever  attend  upon 
true  love.  Restless  and  uneasy,  I  looked  back  with 
regret  to  our  unreserved  intercourse  when  we  sup 
posed  ourselves  brother  and  sister ;  yet  I  would  not 
have  had  the  relationship  true,  for  the  world. 

"  While  matters  were  in  this  state  between  us,  an 


THE  ABENCERRAGE  335 

order  came  from  the  King-  of  Granada  for  the  alcayde 
to  take  command  of  the  fortress  of  Coyn,  on  the  Chris 
tian  frontier.  He  prepared  to  remove,  with  all  his 
family,  but  signified  that  I  should  remain  at  Cartama. 
I  declared  that  I  could  not  be  parted  from  Xarisa. 
'  That  is  the  very  cause/  said  he,  '  why  I  leave  thee 
behind.  It  is  time,  Abendaraez,  thou  shouldst  know 
the  secret  of  thy  birth.  Thou  art  no  son  of  mine, 
neither  is  Xarisa  thy  sister.'  '  I  know  it  all,'  exclaimed 
I,  'and  I  love  her  with  tenfold  the  affection  of  a  brother. 
You  have  brought  us  up  together;  you  have  made  us 
necessary  to  each  other's  happiness;  our  hearts  have 
entwined  themselves  with  our  growth;  do  not  now 
tear  them  asunder.  Fill  up  the  measure  of  your  kind 
ness;  be  indeed  a  father  to  me,  by  giving  me  Xarisa 
for  my  wife.' 

"  The  brow  of  the  alcayde  darkened  as  I  spoke. 
'  Have  I  then  been  deceived  ? '  said  he.  '  Have  those 
nurtured  in  my  very  bosom  been  conspiring  against 
me?  Is  this  your  return  for  my  paternal  tenderness?  — 
to  beguile  the  affections  of  my  child,  and  teach  her  to 
deceive  her  father?  It  would  have  been  cause  enough 
to  refuse  thee  the  hand  of  my  daughter,  that  thou  wert 
of  a  proscribed  race,  who  can  never  approach  the  walls 
of  Granada;  this,  however,  I  might  have  passed  over, 
but  never  will  I  give  my  daughter  to  a  man  who  has 
endeavored  to  win  her  from  me  by  deception/ 

"  All  my  attempts  to  vindicate  myself  and  Xarisa 
were  unavailing.  I  retired  in  anguish  from  his  pres 
ence,  and  seeking  Xarisa,  told  her  of  this  blow,  which 
was  worse  than  death  to  me.  '  Xarisa/  said  I,  '  we 
part  forever !  I  shall  never  see  thee  more !  Thy  father 
will  guard  thee  rigidly.  Thy  beauty  and  his  wealth 
will  soon  attract  some  happier  rival,  and  I  shall  be 
forgotten ! ' 

"  Xarisa  reproached  my  want  of  faith,  and  promised 
eternal  constancy.  I  still  doubted  and  desponded,  until, 


336    RECOLLECTIONS  OF  THE  ALHAMBRA 

moved  by  my  anguish  and  despair,  she  agreed  to  a 
secret  union.  Our  espousals  made,  we  parted,  with  a 
promise  on  her  part  to  send  me  word  from  Coyn,  should 
her  father  absent  himself  from  the  fortress.  The  very 
day  after  our  secret  nuptials,  I  beheld  the  whole  train 
of  the  alcayde  depart  from  Cartama,  nor  would  he 
admit  me  to  his  presence,  nor  permit  me  to  bid  farewell 
to  Xarisa.  I  remained  at  Cartama,  somewhat  pacified 
in  spirit  by  our  secret  bond  of  union;  but  everything 
around  fed  my  passion,  and  reminded  me  of  Xarisa. 
I  saw  the  window  at  which  I  had  so  often  beheld  her. 
I  wandered  through  the  apartment  she  had  inhabited; 
the  chamber  in  which  she  had  slept.  I  visited  the  bower 
of  jessamines,  and  lingered  beside  the  fountain  in 
which  she  had  delighted.  Everything  recalled  her  to 
my  imagination,  and  filled  my  heart  with  melancholy. 

"  At  length  a  confidential  servant  arrived  with  a 
letter  from  her,  informing  me  that  her  father  was  to 
depart  that  day  for  Granada,  on  a  short  absence,  in 
viting  me  to  hasten  to  Coyn,  describing  a  secret  portal 
at  which  I  should  apply,  and  the  signal  by  which  I 
would  obtain  admittance. 

"If  ever  you  have  loved,  most  valiant  alcayde,  you 
may  judge  of  my  transport.  That  very  night  I  arrayed 
myself  in  gallant  attire,  to  pay  due  honor  to  my  bride, 
and  arming  myself  against  any  casual  attack,  issued 
forth  privately  from  Cartama.  You  know  the  rest,  and 
by  what  sad  fortune  of  war  I  find  myself  instead  of  a 
happy  bridegroom  in  the  nuptial  bower  of  Coyn,  van 
quished,  wounded,  and  a  prisoner  within  the  walls  of 
Allora.  The  term  of  absence  of  the  father  of  Xarisa 
is  nearly  expired.  Within  three  days  he  will  return  to 
Coyn,  and  our  meeting  will  no  longer  be  possible. 
Judge,  then,  whether  I  grieve  without  cause  and 
whether  I  may  not  well  be  excused  for  showing  impa 
tience  under  confinement." 

Don  Rodrigo  was  greatly  moved  by  this  recital ;   for, 


THE  ABENCERRAGE  337 

though  more  used  to  rugged  war  than  scenes  of  amo 
rous  softness,  he  was  of  a  kind  and  generous  nature. 

"  Abendaraez,"  said  he,  "  I  did  not  seek  thy  con 
fidence  to  gratify  an  idle  curiosity.  It  grieves  me  much 
that  the  good  fortune  which  delivered  thee  into  my 
hands,  should  have  marred  so  fair  an  enterprise.  Give 
me  thy  faith,  as  a  true  knight,  to  return  prisoner  to 
my  castle,  within  three  days,  and  I  will  grant  thee  per 
mission  to  accomplish  thy  nuptials." 

The  Abencerrage,  in  a  transport  of  gratitude,  would 
have  thrown  himself  at  his  feet,  but  the  alcayde  pre 
vented  him.  Calling  in  his  cavaliers,  he  took  Aben 
daraez  by  the  right  hand,  in  their  presence,  exclaiming 
solemnly,  "  You  promise,  on  the  faith  of  a  cavalier,  to 
return  to  my  castle  of  Allora  within  three  days,  and 
render  yourself  my  prisoner?  "  And  the  Abencerrage 
said,  "  I  promise." 

Then  said  the  alcayde,  "  Go !  and  may  good  fortune 
attend  you.  If  you  require  any  safeguard,  I  and  my 
cavaliers  are  ready  to  be  your  companions." 

The  Abencerrage  kissed  the  hand  of  the  alcayde, 
in  grateful  acknowledgment.  "  Give  me,"  said  he, 
"  my  own  armor  and  my  steed,  and  I  require  no  guard. 
It  is  not  likely  that  I  shall  again  meet  with  so  valorous 
a  foe." 

The  shades  of  night  had  fallen,  when  the  tramp  of 
the  dapple-gray  steed  resounded  over  the  drawbridge, 
and  immediately  afterwards,  the  light  clatter  of  hoofs 
along  the  road  bespoke  the  fleetness  with  which  the 
youthful  lover  hastened  to  his  bride.  It  was  deep  night 
when  the  Moor  arrived  at  the  castle  of  Coyn.  He 
silently  and  cautiously  walked  his  panting  steed  under 
its  dark  walls,  and  having  nearly  passed  round  them, 
came  to  the  portal  denoted  by  Xarisa.  He  paused, 
looked  round  to  see  that  he  was  not  observed,  and 
knocked  three  times  with  the  butt  of  his  lance.  In  a 


338    RECOLLECTIONS  OF  THE  ALHAMBRA 

little  while  the  portal  was  timidly  unclosed  by  the 
duenna  of  Xarisa.  "Alas!  Senor,"  said  she,  "what 
has  detained  you  thus  long?  Every  night  have  I 
watched  for  you;  and  my  lady  is  sick  at  heart  with 
doubt  and  anxiety." 

The  Abencerrage  hung  his  lance  and  shield  and 
scimitar  against  the  wall,  and  followed  the  duenna, 
with  silent  steps,  up  a  winding  staircase,  to  the  apart 
ment  of  Xarisa.  Vain  would  be  the  attempt  to  de 
scribe  the  raptures  of  that  meeting.  Time  flew  too 
swiftly,  and  the  Abencerrage  had  nearly  forgotten, 
until  too  late,  his  promise  to  return  a  prisoner  to  the 
alcayde  of  Allora.  The  recollection  of  it  came  to  him 
with  a  pang,  and  woke  him  from  his  dream  of  bliss. 
Xarisa  saw  his  altered  looks,  and  heard  with  alarm 
his  stifled  sighs ;  but  her  countenance  brightened  when 
she  heard  the  cause.  "  Let  not  thy  spirit  be  cast  down," 
said  she,  throwing  her  white  arms  around  him.  "  I 
have  the  keys  of  my  father's  treasures;  send  ransom 
more  than  enough  to  satisfy  the  Christian,  and  remain 
with  me." 

"  No,"  said  Abendaraez,  "  I  have  given  my  word 
to  return  in  person,  and  like  a  true  knight,  must  fulfil 
my  promise.  After  that,  fortune  must  do  with  me  as 
it  pleases." 

"  Then,"  said  Xarisa,  "  I  will  accompany  thee. 
Never  shalt  thou  return  a  prisoner,  and  I  remain  at 
liberty." 

The  Abencerrage  was  transported  with  joy  at  this 
new  proof  of  devotion  in  his  beautiful  bride.  All 
preparations  were  speedily  made  for  their  departure. 
Xarisa  mounted  behind  the  Moor,  on  his  powerful 
steed;  they  left  the  castle  walls  before  daybreak,  nor 
did  they  pause,  until  they  arrived  at  the  gate  of  the 
castle  of  Allora. 

Alighting  in  the  court,  the  Abencerrage  supported 


THE  ABENCERRAGE  339 

the  steps  of  his  trembling  bride,  who  remained  closely 
veiled,  into  the  presence  of  Rodrigo  de  Narvaez.  "  Be 
hold,  valiant  Alcayde !  "  said  he,  "  the  way  in  which 
an  Abencerrage  keeps  his  word.  I  promised  to  return 
to  thee  a  prisoner,  but  I  deliver  two  captives  into  thy 
power.  Behold  Xarisa,  and  judge  whether  I  grieved 
without  reason,  over  the  loss  of  such  a  treasure.  Re 
ceive  us  as  thine  own,  for  I  confide  my  life  and  her 
honor  to  thy  hands." 

The  alcayde  was  lost  in  admiration  of  the  beauty  of 
the  lady,  and  the  noble  spirit  of  the  Moor.  "  I  know 
not,"  said  he,  "  which  of  you  surpasses  the  other;  but 
I  know  that  my  castle  is  graced  and  honored  by  your 
presence.  Consider  it  your  own,  while  you  deign  to 
reside  with  me." 

For  several  days  the  lovers  remained  at  Allora, 
happy  in  each  other's  love,  and  in  the  friendship  of 
the  alcayde.  The  latter  wrote  a  letter  to  the  Moorish 
king  of  Granada,  relating  the  whole  event,  extolling 
the  valor  and  good  faith  of  the  Abencerrage,  and  crav 
ing  for  him  the  royal  countenance. 

The  king  was  moved  by  the  story,  and  pleased  with 
an  opportunity  of  showing  attention  to  the  wishes  of 
a  gallant  and  chivalrous  enemy;  for  though  he  had 
often  suffered  from  the  prowess  of  Don  Rodrigo  de 
Narvaez,  he  admired  his  heroic  character.  Calling  the 
alcayde  of  Coyn  into  his  presence,  he  gave  him  the 
letter  to  read.  The  alcayde  turned  pale  and  trembled 
with  rage  on  the  perusal.  "  Restrain  thine  anger," 
said  the  king;  "there  is  nothing  that  the  alcayde  of 
Allora  could  ask,  that  I  would  not  grant,  if  in  my 
power.  Go  thou  to  Allora ;  pardon  thy  children ;  take 
them  to  thy  home.  I  receive  this  Abencerrage  into 
my  favor,  and  it  will  be  my  delight  to  heap  benefits 
upon  you  all." 

The  kindling  ire  of  the  alcayde  was  suddenly  ap- 


340    RECOLLECTIONS  OF  THE  ALHAMBRA 

peased.  He  hastened  to  Allora,  and  folded  his  chil 
dren  to  his  bosom,  who  would  have  fallen  at  his  feet. 
Rodrigo  de  Narvaez  gave  liberty  to  his  prisoner  with 
out  ransom,  demanding  merely  a  promise  of  his  friend 
ship.  He  accompanied  the  youthful  couple  and  their 
father  to  Coyn,  where  their  nuptials  were  celebrated 
with  great  rejoicings.  When  the  festivities  were  over, 
Don  Rodrigo  returned  to  his  fortress  of  Allora. 

After  his  departure,  the  alcayde  of  Coyn  addressed 
his  children :  "  To  your  hands,"  said  he,  "  I  confide 
the  disposition  of  my  wealth.  One  of  the  first  things 
I  charge  you,  is  not  to  forget  the  ransom  you  owe  to 
the  alcayde  of  Allora.  His  magnanimity  you  can  never 
repay,  but  you  can  prevent  it  from  wronging  him  of 
his  just  dues.  Give  him,  moreover,  your  entire  friend 
ship,  for  he  merits  it  fully,  though  of  a  different  faith." 

The  Abencerrage  thanked  him  for  his  proposition, 
which  so  truly  accorded  with  his  own  wishes.  He 
took  a  large  sum  of  gold,  and  inclosed  it  in  a  rich 
coffer;  and,  on  his  own  part,  sent  six  beautiful  horses, 
superbly  caparisoned;  with  six  shields  and  lances, 
mounted  and  embossed  with  gold.  The  beautiful 
Xarisa,  at  the  same  time,  wrote  a  letter  to  the  alcayde, 
filled  with  expressions  of  gratitude  and  friendship,  and 
sent  him  a  box  of  fragrant  cypress-wood,  containing 
linen  of  the  finest  quality,  for  his  person.  The  alcayde 
disposed  of  the  present  in  a  characteristic  manner. 
The  horses  and  armor  he  shared  among  the  cavaliers 
who  had  accompanied  him  on  the  night  of  the  skirmish. 
The  box  of  cypress-wood  and  its  contents  he  retained, 
for  the  sake  of  the  beautiful  Xarisa,  and  sent  her,  by 
the  hands  of  the  messenger,  the  sum  of  gold  paid  as 
a  ransom,  entreating  her  to  receive  it  as  a  wedding- 
present.  This  courtesy  and  magnanimity  raised  the 
character  of  the  alcayde  Rodrigo  de  Narvaez  still 
higher  in  the  estimation  of  the  Moors,  who  extolled 


THE  ABENCERRAGE  341 

him  as  a  perfect  mirror  of  chivalric  virtue ;  and  from 
that  time  forward,  there  was  a  continual  exchange  of 
good  offices  between  them. 

Those  who  would  read  the  foregoing  story  decked 
out  with  poetic  grace  in  the  pure  Castilian,  let  them 
seek  it  in  the  "  Diana  of  Montemayor." 


THE   END 


LORD  BYRON 


NEWSTEAD   ABBEY 


NEWSTEAD    ABBEY 


HISTORICAL  NOTICE 

BEING  about  to  give  a  few  sketches  taken  during  a 
three  weeks'  sojourn  in  the  ancestral  mansion  of  the 
late  Lord  Byron,  I  think  it  proper  to  premise  some 
brief  particulars  concerning  its  history. 

Newstead  Abbey  is  one  of  the  finest  specimens  in 
existence  of  those  quaint  and  romantic  piles,  half 
castle,  half  convent,  which  remain  as  monuments  of 
the  olden  times  of  England.  It  stands,  too,  in  the  midst 
of  a  legendary  neighborhood;  being  in  the  heart  of 
Sherwood  Forest,  and  surrounded  by  the  haunts  of 
Robin  Hood  and  his  band  of  outlaws,  so  famous  in 
ancient  ballad  and  nursery  tale.  It  is  true,  the  forest 
scarcely  exists  but  in  name,  and  the  tract  of  country 
over  which  it  once  extended  its  broad  solitudes  and 
shades  is  now  an  open  and  smiling  region,  cultivated 
with  parks  and  farms,  and  enlivened  with  villages. 

Newstead,  which  probably  once  exerted  a  monastic 
sway  over  this  region,  and  controlled  the  consciences 
of  the  rude  foresters,  was  originally  a  priory,  founded 
in  the  latter  part  of  the  twelfth  century,  by  Henry  II., 
at  the  time  when  he  sought,  by  building  of  shrines 
and  convents,  and  by  other  acts  of  external  piety,  to 
expiate  the  murder  of  Thomas  a  Becket.  The  priory 
was  dedicated  to  God  and  the  Virgin,  and  was  inhab 
ited  by  a  fraternity  of  canons  regular  of  St.  Augustine. 
This  order  was  originally  simple  and  abstemious  in 
its  mode  of  living,  and  exemplary  in  its  conduct ;  but 


4  NEWSTEAD  ABBEY 

it  would  seem  that  it  gradually  lapsed  into  those  abuses 
which  disgraced  too  many  of  the  wealthy  monastic 
establishments;  for  there  are  documents  among  its 
archives  which  intimate  the  prevalence  of  gross  mis 
rule  and  dissolute  sensuality  among  its  members. 

At  the  time  of  the  dissolution  of  the  convents  during 
the  reign  of  Henry  VIII. ,  Newstead  underwent  a  sud 
den  reverse,  being  given,  with  the  neighboring  manor 
and  rectory  of  Papelwick,  to  Sir  John  Byron,  Steward 
of  Manchester  and  Rochdale,  and  Lieutenant  of  Sher 
wood  Forest.  This  ancient  family  worthy  figures  in 
the  traditions  of  the  Abbey,  and  in  the  ghost-stories 
with  which  it  abounds,  under  the  quaint  and  graphic 
appellation  of  "  Sir  John  Byron  the  Little,  with  the 
great  Beard."  He  converted  the  saintly  edifice  into  a 
castellated  dwelling,  making  it  his  favorite  residence 
and  the  seat  of  his  forest  jurisdiction. 

The  Byron  family  being  subsequently  ennobled  by 
a  baronial  title,  and  enriched  by  various  possessions, 
maintained  great  style  and  retinue  at  Newstead.  The 
proud  edifice  partook,  however,  of  the  vicissitudes  of 
the  times,  and  Lord  Byron,  in  one  of  his  poems,  rep 
resents  it  as  alternately  the  scene  of  lordly  wassailing 
and  of  civil  war:  — 

Hark,  how  the  hall,  resounding  to  the  strain, 
Shakes  with  the  martial  music's  novel  din ! 

The  heralds  of  a  warrior's  haughty  reign, 
High-crested  banners  wave  thy  walls  within. 

Of  changing  sentinels  the  distant  hum, 
The  mirth  of  feasts,  the  clang  of  burnish'd  arms, 

The  braying  trumpet,  and  the  hoarser  drum, 
Unite  in  concert  with  increased  alarms. 

About  the  middle  of  the  last  century,  the  Abbey 
came  into  the  possession  of  another  noted  character, 
who  makes  no  less  figure  in  its  shadowy  traditions 
than  Sir  John  the  Little  with  the  great  Beard.  This 
was  the  grand-uncle  of  the  poet,  familiarly  known 


NEWSTEAD  ABBEY  5 

among  the  gossiping  chroniclers  of  the  Abbey  as  "  The 
Wicked  Lord  Byron."  He  is  represented  as  a  man  of 
irritable  passions  and  vindictive  temper,  in  the  indul 
gence  of  which  an  incident  occurred  which  gave  a 
turn  to  his  whole  character  and  life,  and  in  some 
measure  affected  the  fortunes  of  the  Abbey.  In  his 
neighborhood  lived  his  kinsman  and  friend,  Mr.  Cha- 
worth,  proprietor  of  Annesley  Hall.  Being  together 
in  London  in  1765,  in  a  chamber  of  the  Star  and 
Garter  tavern  in  Pall  Mall,  a  quarrel  rose  between 
them.  Byron  insisted  upon  settling  it  upon  the  spot 
by  single  combat.  They  fought  without  seconds,  by 
the  dim  light  of  a  candle ;  and  Mr.  Chaworth,  although 
the  most  expert  swordsman,  received  a  mortal  wound. 
With  his  dying  breath  he  related  such  particulars  of 
the  contest  as  induced  the  coroner's  jury  to  return  a 
verdict  of  wilful  murder.  Lord  Byron  was  sent  to 
the  Tower,  and  subsequently  tried  before  the  House 
of  Peers,  where  an  ultimate  verdict  was  given  of 
manslaughter. 

He  retired  after  this  to  the  Abbey,  where  he  shut 
himself  up  to  brood  over  his  disgraces ;  grew  gloomy, 
morose,  and  fantastical,  and  indulged  in  fits  of  passion 
and  caprice,  that  made  him  the  theme  of  rural  wonder 
and  scandal.  No  tale  was  too  wild  or  too  monstrous 
for  vulgar  belief.  Like  his  successor  the  poet,  he  was 
accused  of  all  kinds  of  vagaries  and  wickedness.  It 
was  said  that  he  always  went  armed,  as  if  prepared 
to  commit  murder  on  the  least  provocation.  At  one 
time,  when  a  gentleman  of  his  neighborhood  was  to 
dine  tete-a-tete  with  him,  it  is  said  a  brace  of  pistols 
were  gravely  laid  with  the  knives  and  forks  upon  the 
table,  as  part  of  the  regular  table  furniture,  and  im 
plements  that  might  be  needed  in  the  course  of  the 
repast.  Another  rumor  states,  that,  being  exasperated 
at  his  coachman  for  disobedience  to  orders,  he  shot 
him  on  the  spot,  threw  his  body  into  the  coach  where 


6  NEWSTEAD  ABBEY 

Lady  Byron  was  seated,  and,  mounting  the  box,  offici 
ated  in  his  stead.  At  another  time,  according  to  the 
same  vulgar  rumors,  he  threw  her  ladyship  into  the 
lake  in  front  of  the  Abbey,  where  she  would  have  been 
drowned  but  for  the  timely  aid  of  the  gardener.  These 
stories  are  doubtless  exaggerations  of  trivial  incidents 
which  may  have  occurred;  but  it  is  certain  that  the 
wayward  passions  of  this  unhappy  man  caused  a  sep 
aration  from  his  wife,  and  finally  spread  a  solitude 
around  him.  Being  displeased  at  the  marriage  of  his 
son,  and  heir,  he  displayed  an  inveterate  malignity 
towards  him.  Not  being  able  to  cut  off  his  succession 
to  the  Abbey  estate,  which  descended  to  him  by  entail, 
he  endeavored  to  injure  it  as  much  as  possible,  so  that 
it  might  come  a  mere  wreck  into  his  hands.  For  this 
purpose  he  suffered  the  Abbey  to  fall  out  of  repair, 
and  everything  to  go  to  waste  about  it,  and  cut  down 
all  the  timber  on  the  estate,  laying  low  many  a  tract 
of  old  Sherwood  Forest,  so  that  the  Abbey  lands  lay 
stripped  and  bare  of  all  their  ancient  honors.  He  was 
baffled  in  his  unnatural  revenge  by  the  premature  death 
of  his  son,  and  passed  the  remainder  of  his  days  in 
his  deserted  and  dilapidated  halls,  a  gloomy  misan 
thrope,  brooding  amidst  the  scenes  he  had  laid  desolate. 

His  wayward  humors  drove  from  him  all  neighborly 
society,  and  for  a  part  of  the  time  he  was  almost  with 
out  domestics.  In  his  misanthropic  mood,  when  at 
variance  with  all  human-kind,  he  took  to  feeding 
crickets,  so  that  in  process  of  time  the  Abbey  was 
overrun  with  them,  and  its  lonely  halls  made  more 
lonely  at  night  by  their  monotonous  music.  Tradi 
tion  adds  that,  at  his  death,  the  crickets  seemed  aware 
that  they  had  lost  their  patron  and  protector,  for  they 
one  and  all  packed  up  bag  and  baggage,  and  left  the 
Abbey,  trooping  across  its  courts  and  corridors  in  all 
directions. 

The  death  of  the  "Old  Lord,"  or  "The  Wicked 


NEWSTEAD  ABBEY  7 

Lord  Byron,"  for  he  is  known  by  both  appellations, 
occurred  in  1798;  and  the  Abbey  then  passed  into  the 
possession  of  the  poet.  The  latter  was  but  eleven 
years  of  age,  and  living  in  humble  style  with  his  mother 
in  Scotland.  They  came  soon  after  to  England,  to 
take  possession.  Moore  gives  a  simple  but  striking 
anecdote  of  the  first  arrival  of  the  poet  at  the  domains 
of  his  ancestors. 

They  had  arrived  at  the  Newstead  toll-bar,  and  saw 
the  woods  of  the  Abbey  stretching  out  to  receive  them, 
when  Mrs.  Byron,  affecting  to  be  ignorant  of  the 
place,  asked  the  woman  of  the  toll-house  to  whom  that 
seat  belonged?  She  was  told  that  the  owner  of  it, 
Lord  Byron,  had  been  some  months  dead.  "  And  who 
is  the  next  heir?  "  asked  the  proud  and  happy  mother. 
"  They  say,"  answered  the  old  woman,  "  it  is  a  little 
boy  who  lives  at  Aberdeen."  —  "  And  this  is  he,  bless 
him !  "  exclaimed  the  nurse,  no  longer  able  to  contain 
herself,  and  turning  to  kiss  with  delight  the  young 
lord  who  was  seated  on  her  lap.1 

During  Lord  Byron's  minority,  the  Abbey  was  let 
to  Lord  Grey  de  Ruthen,  but  the  poet  visited  it  occa 
sionally  during  the  Harrow  vacations,  when  he  resided 
with  his  mother  at  lodgings  in  Nottingham.  It  was 
treated  little  better  by  its  present  tenant  than  by  the 
old  lord  who  preceded  him;  so  that,  when,  in  the 
autumn  of  1808,  Lord  Byron  took  up  his  abode  there, 
it  was  in  a  ruinous  condition.  The  following  lines 
from  his  own  pen  may  give  some  idea  of  its  condition : 

Through  thy  battlements,  Newstead,  the  hollow  winds  whistle, 
Thou,  the  hall  of  my  fathers,  art  gone  to  decay ; 

In  thy  once  smiling  garden,  the  hemlock  and  thistle 

Have  choked  up  the  rose  which  once  bloomed  in  the  way. 

Of  the  mail-covered  barons  who,  proudly,  to  battle 
Led  thy  vassals  from  Europe  to  Palestine's  plain, 

The  escutcheon  and  shield,  which  with  every  wind  rattle, 
Are  the  only  sad  vestiges  now  that  remain.2 

1  Moore's  Life  of  Lord  Byron. 

2  Lines  on  leaving  Newstead  Abbey. 


8  NEWSTEAD  ABBEY 

In  another  poem  he  expresses  the  melancholy  feeling 
with  which  he  took  possession  of  his  ancestral  mansion : 

Newstead !    That  saddening  scene  of  change  is  thine, 

Thy  yawning  arch  betokens  sure  decay : 
The  last  and  youngest  of  a  noble  line 

Now  holds  thy  mouldering  turrets  in  his  sway. 

Deserted  now,  he  scans  thy  gray-worn  towers, 

Thy  vaults,  where  dead  of  feudal  ages  sleep, 
Thy  cloisters,  pervious  to  the  wintry  showers, 

These  —  these  he  views,  and  views  them  but  to  weep. 

Yet  he  prefers  thee  to  the  gilded  domes, 

Or  gewgaw  grottos  of  the  vainly  great; 
Yet  lingers  'mid  thy  damp  and  mossy  tombs, 

Nor  breathes  a  murmur  'gainst  the  will  of  fate.1 

Lord  Byron  had  not  fortune  sufficient  to  put  the 
pile  in  extensive  repair,  nor  to  maintain  anything  like 
the  state  of  his  ancestors.  He  restored  some  of  the 
apartments,  so  as  to  furnish  his  mother  with  a  com 
fortable  habitation,  and  fitted  up  a  quaint  study  for 
himself,  in  which,  among  books  and  busts,  and  other 
library  furniture,  were  two  skulls  of  the  ancient  friars, 
grinning  on  each  side  of  an  antique  cross.  One  of 
his  gay  companions  gives  a  picture  of  Newstead  when 
thus  repaired,  and  the  picture  is  sufficiently  desolate. 

"  There  are  two  tiers  of  cloisters,  with  a  variety  of 
cells  and  rooms  about  them,  which,  though  not  in 
habited,  nor  in  an  inhabitable  state,  might  easily  be  made 
so;  and  many  of  the  original  rooms,  among  which  is 
a  fine  stone  hall,  are  still  in  use.  Of  the  Abbey  church, 
one  end  only  remains ;  and  the  old  kitchen,  with  a  long 
range  of  apartments,  is  reduced  to  a  heap  of  rubbish. 
Leading  from  the  Abbey  to  the  modern  part  of  the 
habitation  is  a  noble  room,  seventy  feet  in  length,  and 
twenty-three  in  breadth;  but  every  part  of  the  house 
displays  neglect  and  decay,  save  those  which  the  present 
lord  has  lately  fitted  up."  2 

1  Elegy  on  Newstead  Abbey. 

2  Letter  of  the  late  Charles  Skinner  Mathews,  Esq. 


NEWSTEAD  ABBEY  9 

Even  the  repairs  thus  made  were  but  of  transient 
benefit,  for,  the  roof  being  left  in  its  dilapidated  state, 
the  rain  soon  penetrated  into  the  apartments  which 
Lord  Byron  had  restored  and  decorated,  and  in  a  few 
years  rendered  them  almost  as  desolate  as  the  rest  of 
the  Abbey. 

Still  he  felt  a  pride  in  the  ruinous  old  edifice;  its 
very  dreary  and  dismantled  state  addressed  itself  to 
his  poetical  imagination,  and  to  that  love  of  the  melan 
choly  and  the  grand  which  is  evinced  in  all  his  writ 
ings.  "  Come  what  may,"  said  he  in  one  of  his  letters, 
"  Newstead  and  I  stand  or  fall  together.  I  have  now 
lived  on  the  spot.  I  have  fixed  my  heart  upon  it,  and 
no  pressure,  present  or  future,  shall  induce  me  to 
barter  the  last  vestige  of  our  inheritance.  I  have  that 
pride  within  me  which  will  enable  me  to  support  diffi 
culties:  could  I  obtain  in  exchange  for  Newstead 
Abbey  the  first  fortune  in  the  country,  I  would  reject 
the  proposition." 

His  residence  at  the  Abbey,  however,  was  fitful  and 
uncertain.  He  passed  occasional  portions  of  time 
there,  sometimes  studiously  and  alone,  oftener  idly  and 
recklessly,  and  occasionally  with  young  and  gay  com 
panions,  in  riot  and  revelry,  and  the  indulgence  of  all 
kinds  of  mad  caprice.  The  Abbey  was  by  no  means 
benefited  by  these  roistering  inmates,  who  sometimes 
played  off  monkish  mummeries  about  the  cloisters,  at 
other  times  turned  the  state-chambers  into  schools  for 
boxing  and  single-stick,  and  shot  pistols  in  the  great 
hall.  The  country  people  of  the  neighborhood  were 
as  much  puzzled  by  these  madcap  vagaries  of  the  new 
incumbent  as  by  the  gloomier  habits  of  the  "  old  lord," 
and  began  to  think  that  madness  was  inherent  in  the 
Byron  race,  or  that  some  wayward  star  ruled  over  the 
Abbey. 

It  is  needless  to  enter  into  a  detail  of  the  circum 
stances  which  led  his  Lordship  to  sell  his  ancestral 


io  NEWSTEAD  ABBEY 

estate,  notwithstanding  the  partial  predilections  and 
hereditary  feeling  which  he  had  so  eloquently  ex 
pressed.  Fortunately  it  fell  into  the  hands  of  a  man 
who  possessed  something  of  a  poetical  temperament, 
and  who  cherished  an  enthusiastic  admiration  for 
Lord  Byron.  Colonel  (at  that  time  Major)  Wildman 
had  been  a  schoolmate  of  the  poet,  and  sat  with  him 
on  the  same  form  at  Harrow.  He  had  subsequently 
distinguished  himself  in  the  war  of  the  Peninsula,  and 
at  the  battle  of  Waterloo,  and  it  was  a  great  consola 
tion  to  Lord  Byron,  in  parting  with  his  family  estate, 
to  know  that  it  would  be  held  by  one  capable  of  restor 
ing  its  faded  glories,  and  who  would  respect  and  pre 
serve  all  the  monuments  and  memorials  of  his  line.1 

The  confidence  of  Lord  Byron  in  the  good  feeling 
and  good  taste  of  Colonel  Wildman  has  been  justified 

1  The  following  letter,  written  in  the  course  of  the  transfer  of 
the  estate,  has  never  been  published :  — 

VENICE,  Nov.  18,  1818. 
MY  DEAR  WILDMAN,  — 

Mr.  Hanson  is  on  the  eve  of  his  return,  so  that  I  have  only 
time  to  return  a  few  inadequate  thanks  for  your  very  kind  letter. 
I  should  regret  to  trouble  you  with  any  requests  of  mine,  in  re 
gard  to  the  preservation  of  any  signs  of  my  family  which  may 
still  exist  at  Newstead,  and  leave  everything  of  that  kind  to  your 
own  feelings,  present  or  future,  upon  the  subject.  The  portrait 
which  you  flatter  me  by  desiring,  would  not  be  worth  to  you 
your  trouble  and  expense  of  such  an  expedition,  but  you  may  rely 
upon  having  the  very  first  that  may  be  painted,  and  which  may 
seem  worth  your  acceptance. 

I  trust  that  Newstead  will,  being  yours,  remain  so,  and  that  I 
may  see  you  as  happy  as  I  am  very  sure  that  you  will  make  your 
dependants.  With  regard  to  myself,  you  may  be  sure  that, 
whether  in  the  fourth,  or  fifth,  or  sixth  form  at  Harrow,  or  in 
the  fluctuations  of  after-life,  I  shall  always  remember  with  re 
gard  my  old  schoolfellow  —  fellow-monitor,  and  friend,  and 
recognize  with  respect  the  gallant  soldier,  who,  with  all  the  ad 
vantages  of  fortune  and  allurements  of  youth  to  a  life  of  pleas 
ure,  devoted  himself  to  duties  of  a  nobler  order  and  will  receive 
his  reward  in  the  esteem  and  admiration  of  his  country. 

Ever  yours  most  truly  and  affectionately, 

BYRON. 


NEWSTEAD  ABBEY  n 

by  the  event.  Under  his  judicious  eye  and  munificent 
hand  the  venerable  and  romantic  pile  has  risen  from  its 
ruins  in  all  its  old  monastic  and  baronial  splendor, 
and  additions  have  been  made  to  it  in  perfect  con 
formity  of  style.  The  groves  and  forests  have  been 
replanted;  the  lakes  and  fish-ponds  cleaned  out,  and 
the  gardens  rescued  from  the  "  hemlock  and  thistle," 
and  restored  to  their  pristine  and  dignified  formality. 

The  farms  on  the  estate  have  been  put  in  complete 
order,  new  farm-houses  built  of  stone,  in  the  pictur 
esque  and  comfortable  style  of  the  old  English 
granges;  the  hereditary  tenants  secured  in  their  pater 
nal  homes  and  treated  with  the  most  considerate  in 
dulgence;  everything,  in  a  word,  gives  happy  indica 
tions  of  a  liberal  and  beneficent  landlord. 

What  most,  however,  will  interest  the  visitors  to 
the  Abbey  in  favor  of  its  present  occupant,  is  the 
reverential  care  with  which  he  has  preserved  and  reno 
vated  every  monument  and  relic  of  the  Byron  family, 
and  every  object  in  any  wise  connected  with  the  mem 
ory  of  the  poet.  Eighty  thousand  pounds  have  already 
been  expended  upon  the  venerable  pile,  yet  the  work 
is  still  going  on,  and  Newstead  promises  to  realize 
the  hope  faintly  breathed  by  the  poet  when  bidding  it 
a  melancholy  farewell :  — 

Haply  thy  sun  emerging,  yet  may  shine, 
Thee  to  irradiate  with  meridian  ray ; 

Hours  splendid  as  the  past  may  still  be  thine, 
And  bless  thy  future,  as  thy  former  day. 


12  NEWSTEAD  ABBEY 


ARRIVAL  AT  THE  ABBEY 

I  HAD  been  passing  a  merry  Christmas  in  the  good  old 
style  at  Barlboro'  Hall,  a  venerable  family  mansion 
in  Derbyshire,  and  set  off  to  finish  the  holidays  with 
the  hospitable  proprietor  of  Newstead  Abbey.  A  drive 
of  seventeen  miles  through  a  pleasant  country,  part 
of  it  the  storied  region  of  Sherwood  Forest,  brought 
me  to  the  gate  of  Newstead  Park.  The  aspect  of 
the  park  was  by  no  means  imposing,  the  fine  old 
trees  that  once  adorned  it  having  been  laid  low  by 
Lord  Byron's  wayward  predecessor. 

Entering  the  gate,  the  post-chaise  rolled  heavily 
along  a  sandy  road,  between  naked  declivities,  gradu 
ally  descending  into  one  of  those  gentle  and  sheltered 
valleys  in  which  the  sleek  monks  of  old  loved  to  nestle 
themselves.  Here  a  sweep  of  the  road  round  an  angle 
of  a  garden-wall  brought  us  full  in  front  of  the  vener 
able  edifice,  embosomed  in  the  valley,  with  a  beautiful 
sheet  of  water  spreading  out  before  it. 

The  irregular  gray  pile,  of  motley  architecture,  an 
swered  to  the  description  given  by  Lord  Byron :  — 

An  old,  old  monastery  once,  and  now 
Still  older  mansion,  of  a  rich  and  rare 
Mixed  Gothic  .... 

One  end  was  fortified  by  a  castellated  tower  be 
speaking  the  baronial  and  warlike  days  of  the  edifice; 
the  other  end  maintained  its  primitive  monastic  char 
acter.  A  ruined  chapel,  flanked  by  a  solemn  grove, 
still  reared  its  front  entire.  It  is  true,  the  threshold  of 
the  once  frequented  portal  was  grass-grown,  and  the 
great  lancet  window,  once  glorious  with  painted  glass, 
was  now  entwined  and  overhung  with  ivy;  but  the 


NEWSTEAD  ABBEY  13 

old  convent  cross  still  braved  both  time  and  tempest 
on  the  pinnacle  of  the  chapel,  and  below,  the  blessed 
effigies  of  the  Virgin  and  child,  sculptured  in  gray 
stone,  remained  uninjured  in  their  niche,  giving  a 
sanctified  aspect  to  the  pile.1 

A  flight  of  rooks,  tenants  of  the  adjacent  grove, 
were  hovering  about  the  ruin,  and  balancing  them 
selves  upon  every  airy  projection,  and  looked  down 
with  curious  eye,  and  cawed  as  the  post-chaise  rattled 
along  below. 

The  chamberlain  of  the  Abbey,  a  most  decorous  per 
sonage,  dressed  in  black,  received  us  at  the  portal. 
Here,  too,  we  encountered  a  memento  of  Lord  Byron, 
a  great  black  and  white  Newfoundland  dog,  that  had 
accompanied  his  remains  from  Greece.  He  was  de 
scended  from  the  famous  Boatswain,  and  inherited  his 
generous  qualities.  He  was  a  cherished  inmate  of  the 
Abbey,  and  honored  and  caressed  by  every  visitor. 
Conducted  by  the  chamberlain,  and  followed  by  the 
dog,  who  assisted  in  doing  the  honors  of  the  house, 
we  passed  through  a  long,  low  vaulted  hall,  supported 
by  massive  Gothic  arches,  and  not  a  little  resembling 
the  crypt  of  a  cathedral,  being  the  basement  story  of 
the  Abbey. 

From  this  we  ascended  a  stone  staircase,  at  the  head 
of  which  a  pair  of  folding-doors  admitted  us  into  a 
broad  corridor  that  ran  round  the  interior  of  the 
Abbey.  The  windows  of  the  corridor  looked  into  a 
quadrangular  grass-grown  court,  forming  the  hollow 
centre  of  the  pile.  In  the  midst  of  it  rose  a  lofty  and 
fantastic  fountain,  wrought  of  the  same  gray  stone 

1  ...  in  a  higher  niche,  alone,  but  crown'd, 

The  Virgin  Mother  of  the  God-born  child, 
With  her  son  in  her  blessed  arms,  looked  round,       ( 

Spared  by  some  chance,  when  all  beside  was  spoil  d : 
She  made  the  earth  below  seem  holy  ground. 

Don  Juan,  Canto  III. 


14  NEWSTEAD  ABBEY 

as  the  main  edifice,  and  which  has  been  well  described 
by  Lord  Byron. 

Amidst  the  court  a  Gothic  fountain  play'd, 

Symmetrical,  but  deck'd  with  carvings  quaint, 

Strange  faces,  like  to  men  in  masquerade, 
And  here  perhaps  a  monster,  there  a  saint : 

The  spring  rush'd  through  grim  mouths  of  granite  made, 
And  sparkled  into  basins,  where  it  spent 

Its  little  torrent  in  a  thousand  bubbles, 

Like  man's  vain  glory,  and  his  vainer  troubles.1 

Around  this  quadrangle  were  low  vaulted  cloisters, 
with  Gothic  arches,  once  the  secluded  walks  of  the 
monks :  the  corridor  along  which  we  were  passing  was 
built  above  these  cloisters,  and  their  hollow  arches 
seemed  to  reverberate  every  foot-fall.  Everything 
thus  far  had  a  solemn  monastic  air;  but,  on  arriving 
at  an  angle  of  the  corridor,  the  eye,  glancing  along  a 
shadowy  gallery,  caught  a  sight  of  two  dark  figures  in 
plate  armor,  with  closed  visors,  bucklers  braced,  and 
swords  drawn,  standing  motionless  against  the  wall. 
They  seemed  two  phantoms  of  the  chivalrous  era  of 
the  Abbey. 

Here  the  chamberlain,  throwing  open  a  folding-door, 
ushered  us  at  once  into  a  spacious  and  lofty  saloon, 
which  offered  a  brilliant  contrast  to  the  quaint  and 
sombre  apartments  we  had  traversed.  It  was  elegantly 
furnished,  and  the  walls  hung  with  paintings,  yet  some 
thing  of  its  original  architecture  had  been  preserved 
and  blended  with  modern  embellishments.  There  were 
the  stone-shafted  casements  and  the  deep  bow-window 
of  former  times.  The  carved  and  panelled  wood-work 
of  the  lofty  ceiling  had  likewise  been  carefully  restored, 
and  its  Gothic  and  grotesque  devices  painted  and  gilded 
in  their  ancient  style. 

Here,  too,  were  emblems  of  the  former  and  latter 
days  of  the  Abbey,  in  the  effigies  of  the  first  and  last 

1  Don  Juan,  Canto  III. 


NEWSTEAD  ABBEY  15 

of  the  Byron  line  that  held  sway  over  its  destinies. 
At  the  upper  end  of  the  saloon,  above  the  door,  the 
dark  Gothic  portrait  of  "  Sir  John  Byron  the  Little 
with  the  great  Beard  "  looked  grimly  down  from  his 
canvas,  while,  at  the  opposite  end,  a  white  marble  bust 
of  the  genius  loci,  the  noble  poet,  shone  conspicuously 
from  its  pedestal. 

The  whole  air  and  style  of  the  apartment  partook 
more  of  the  palace  than  the  monastery,  and  its  win 
dows  looked  forth  on  a  suitable  prospect,  composed  of 
beautiful  groves,  smooth  verdant  lawns,  and  silver 
sheets  of  water.  Below  the  windows  was  a  small 
flower-garden,  enclosed  by  stone  balustrades,  on  which 
were  stately  peacocks,  sunning  themselves  and  display 
ing  their  plumage.  About  the  grass  plots  in  front  were 
gay  cock-pheasants,  and  plump  partridges,  and  nimble- 
footed  water-hens,  feeding  almost  in  perfect  security. 

Such  was  the  medley  of  objects  presented  to  the  eye 
on  first  visiting  the  Abbey,  and  I  found  the  interior 
fully  to  answer  the  description  of  the  poet :  — 

The  mansion's  self  was  vast  and  venerable, 
With  more  of  the  monastic  than  has  been 

Elsewhere  preserved :  the  cloisters  still  were  stable, 
The  cells,  too,  and  refectory,  I  ween ; 

An  exquisite  small  chapel  had  been  able, 
Still  unimpair'd,  to  decorate  the  scene; 

The  rest  had  been  reformed,  replaced,  or  sunk, 

And  spoke  more  of  the  friar  than  the  monk. 

Huge  halls,  long  galleries,  spacious  chambers,  joined 
By  no  quite  lawful  marriage  of  the  arts, 

Might  shock  a  connoisseur;   but  when  combined 
Formed  a  whole,  which,  irregular  in  parts, 

Yet  left  a  grand  impression  on  the  mind, 

At  least  of  those  whose  eyes  were  in  their  hearts. 

It  is  not  my  intention  to  lay  open  the  scenes  of 
domestic  life  at  the  Abbey,  nor  to  describe  the  festivi 
ties  of  which  I  was  a  partaker  during  my  sojourn 
within  its  hospitable  walls.  I  wish  merely  to  present 
a  picture  of  the  edifice  itself,  and  of  those  personages 


16  NEWSTEAD  ABBEY 

and  circumstances  about  it  connected  with  the  memory 
of  Byron. 

I  forbear,  therefore,  to  dwell  on  my  reception  by 
my  excellent  and  amiable  host  and  hostess,  or  to  make 
my  reader  acquainted  with  the  elegant  inmates  of  the 
mansion  that  I  met  in  the  saloon;  and  I  shall  pass 
on  at  once  with  him  to  the  chamber  allotted  me,  and 
to  which  I  was  most  respectfully  conducted  by  the 
chamberlain. 

It  was  one  of  a  magnificent  suite  of  rooms,  extend 
ing  between  the  court  of  the  cloisters  and  the  Abbey 
garden,  the  windows  looking  into  the  latter.  The 
whole  suite  formed  the  ancient  state  apartment,  and 
had  fallen  into  decay  during  the  neglected  days  of  the 
Abbey,  so  as  to  be  in  a  ruinous  condition  in  the  time  of 
Lord  Byron.  It  had  since  been  restored  to  its  ancient 
splendor,  of  which  my  chamber  may  be  cited  as  a 
specimen.  It  was  lofty  and  well  proportioned;  the 
lower  part  of  the  walls  was  panelled  with  ancient  oak, 
the  upper  part  hung  with  gobelin  tapestry,  representing 
Oriental  hunting-scenes,  wherein  the  figures  were  of 
the  size  of  life,  and  of  great  vivacity  of  attitude  and 
color. 

The  furniture  was  antique,  dignified,  and  cumbrous. 
High-backed  chairs,  curiously  carved,  and  wrought  in 
needlework;  a  massive  clothes-press  of  dark  oak,  well 
polished,  and  inlaid  with  landscapes  of  various  tinted 
woods;  a  bed  of  state,  ample  and  lofty,  so  as  only  to 
be  ascended  by  a  movable  flight  of  steps,  the  huge 
posts  supporting  a  high  tester  with  a  tuft  of  crimson 
plumes  at  each  corner,  and  rich  curtains  of  crimson 
damask  hanging  in  broad  and  heavy  folds. 

A  venerable  mirror  of  plate-glass  stood  on  the  toilet, 
in  which  belles  of  former  centuries  may  have  con 
templated  and  decorated  their  charms.  The  floor  of 
the  chamber  was  of  tessellated  oak,  shining  with  wax, 
and  partly  covered  by  a  Turkey  carpet.  In  the  centre 


NEWSTEAD  ABBEY  17 

stood  a  massy  oaken  table,  waxed  and  polished  as 
smooth  as  glass,  and  furnished  with  a  writing-desk  of 
perfumed  rosewood. 

^  A  sober  light  was  admitted  into  the  room  through 
Gothic  stone-shafted  casements,  partly  shaded  by 
crimson  curtains,  and  partly  overshadowed  by  the 
trees  of  the  garden.  This  solemnly  tempered  light 
added  to  the  effect  of  the  stately  and  antiquated 
interior. 

Two  portraits,  suspended  over  the  doors,  were  in 
keeping  with  the  scene.  They  were  in  ancient  Van 
dyke  dresses ;  one  was  a  cavalier,  who  may  have  oc 
cupied  this  apartment  in  days  of  yore,  the  other  was 
a  lady  with  a  black  velvet  mask  in  her  hand,  who  may 
once  have  arrayed  herself  for  conquest  at  the  very 
mirror  I  have  described. 

The  most  curious  relic  of  old  times,  however,  in 
this  quaint  but  richly  dight  apartment,  was  a  great 
chimney-piece  of  panel-work,  carved  in  high  relief, 
with  niches  or  compartments,  each  containing  a  human 
bust,  that  protruded  almost  entirely  from  the  wall. 
Some  of  the  figures  were  in  ancient  Gothic  garb;  the 
most  striking  among  them  was  a  female,  who  was 
earnestly  regarded  by  a  fierce  Saracen  from  an  ad 
joining  niche. 

This  panel-work  is  among  the  mysteries  of  the 
Abbey,  and  causes  as  much  wide  speculation  as  the 
Egyptian  hieroglyphics.  Some  suppose  it  to  illustrate 
an  adventure  in  the  Holy  Land,  and  that  the  lady  in 
effigy  had  been  rescued  by  some  crusader  of  the  family 
from  the  turbaned  Turk  who  watches  her  so  earnestly. 
What  tends  to  give  weight  to  these  suppositions  is, 
that  similar  pieces  of  panel-work  exist  in  other  parts 
of  the  Abbey,  in  all  of  which  are  to  be  seen  the  Chris 
tian  lady  and  her  Saracen  guardian  or  lover.  At  the 
bottom  of  these  sculptures  are  emblazoned  the  armorial 
bearings  of  the  Byrons. 


i8  NEWSTEAD  ABBEY 

I  shall  not  detain  the  reader,  however,  with  any 
further  description  of  my  apartment,  or  of  the  mys 
teries  connected  with  it.  As  he  is  to  pass  some  days 
with  me  at  the  Abbey,  we  shall  have  time  to  examine 
the  old  edifice  at  our  leisure,  and  to  make  ourselves 
acquainted,  not  merely  with  its  interior,  but  likewise 
with  its  environs. 


THE  ABBEY  GARDEN 

THE  morning  after  my  arrival,  I  rose  at  an  early  hour. 
The  daylight  was  peering  brightly  between  the  window- 
curtains,  and  drawing  them  apart,  I  gazed  through'  the 
Gothic  casement  upon  a  scene  that  accorded  in  char 
acter  with  the  interior  of  the  ancient  mansion.  It  was 
the  old  Abbey  garden,  but  altered  to  suit  the  tastes  of 
different  times  and  occupants.  In  one  direction  were 
shady  walks  and  alleys,  broad  terraces  and  lofty 
groves;  in  another,  beneath  a  gray  monastic-looking 
angle  of  the  edifice,  overrun  with  ivy  and  surmounted 
by  a  cross,  lay  a  small  French  garden,  with  for 
mal  flower-pots,  gravelled  walks,  and  stately  stone 
balustrades. 

The  beauty  of  the  morning,  and  the  quiet  of  the 
hour,  tempted  me  to  an  early  stroll ;  for  it  is  pleasant 
to  enjoy  such  old-time  places  alone,  when  one  may 
indulge  poetical  reveries,  and  spin  cobweb  fancies 
without  interruption.  Dressing  myself,  therefore, 
with  all  speed,  I  descended  a  small  flight  of  steps  from 
the  state  apartment  into  the  long  corridor  over  the 
cloisters,  along  which  I  passed  to  a  door  at  the  farther 
end.  Here  I  emerged  into  the  open  air,  and,  descend 
ing  another  flight  of  stone  steps,  found  myself  in  the 
centre  of  what  had  once  been  the  Abbey  chapel. 

Nothing  of  the  sacred  edifice  remained,  however, 
but  the  Gothic  front,  with  its  deep  portal  and  grand 


NEWSTEAD  ABBEY  19 

lancet-window,  already  described.  The  nave,  the  side 
walls,  the  choir,  the  sacristy,  all  had  disappeared.  The 
open  sky  was  over  my  head,  a  smooth-shaven  grass- 
plot  beneath  my  feet.  Gravel-walks  and  shrubberies 
had  succeeded  to  the  shadowy  aisles,  and  stately  trees 
to  the  clustering  columns. 

Where  now  the  grass  exhales  a  murky  dew, 

The  humid  pall  of  life-extinguished  clay, 
In  sainted  fame  the  sacred  fathers  grew, 

Nor  raised  their  pious  voices  but  to  pray. 
Where  now  the  bats  their  wavering  wings  extend, 

Soon  as  the  gloaming  spreads  her  warning  shade, 
The  choir  did  oft  their  mingling  vespers  blend, 

Or  matin  orisons  to  Mary  paid. 

Instead  of  the  matin  orisons  of  the  monks,  how 
ever,  the  ruined  walls  of  the  chapel  now  resounded  to 
the  cawing  of  innumerable  rooks  that  were  fluttering 
and  hovering  about  the  dark  grove  which  they  in 
habited,  and  preparing  for  their  morning  flight. 

My  ramble  led  me  along  quiet  alleys,  bordered  by 
shrubbery,  where  the  solitary  water-hen  would  now 
and  then  scud  across  my  path,  and  take  refuge  among 
the  bushes.  From  hence  I  entered  upon  a  broad  ter 
raced  walk,  once  a  favorite  resort  of  the  friars,  which 
extended  the  whole  length  of  the  old  Abbey  garden, 
passing  along  the  ancient  stone  wall  which  bounded 
it.  In  the  centre  of  the  garden  lay  one  of  the  monkish 
fish-pools,  an  oblong  sheet  of  water,  deep  set,  like  a 
mirror,  in  green  sloping  banks  of  turf.  In  its  glassy 
bosom  was  reflected  the  dark  mass  of  a  neighboring 
grove,  one  of  the  most  important  features  of  the 
garden. 

This  grove  goes  by  the  sinister  name  of  "  the  Devil's 
Wood,"  and  enjoys  but  an  equivocal  character  in  the 
neighborhood.  It  was  planted  by  "  The  Wicked  Lord 
Byron,"  during  the  early  part  oi  his  residence  at  the 
Abbey,  before  his  fatal  duel  with  Mr.  Chaworth. 
Having  something  of  a  foreign  and  a  classical  taste, 


20  NEWSTEAD  ABBEY 

he  set  up  leaden  statues  of  satyrs  or  fauns  at  each 
end  of  the  grove.  The  statues,  like  everything  else 
about  the  old  Lord,  fell  under  the  suspicion  and  oblo 
quy  that  overshadowed  him  in  the  latter  part  of  his 
life.  The  country  people,  who  knew  nothing  of 
heathen  mythology  and  its  sylvan  deities,  looked  with 
horror  at  idols  invested  with  the  diabolical  attributes 
of  horns  and  cloven  feet.  They  probably  supposed 
them  some  object  of  secret  worship  of  the  gloomy  and 
secluded  misanthrope  and  reputed  murderer,  and  gave 
them  the  name  of  "  The  old  Lord's  Devils." 

I  penetrated  the  recesses  of  the  mystic  grove.  There 
stood  the  ancient  and  much  slandered  statues,  over 
shadowed  by  tall  larches,  and  stained  by  dank  green 
mould.  It  is  not  a  matter  of  surprise  that  strange 
figures,  thus  behoofed  and  behorned,  and  set  up  in  a 
gloomy  grove,  should  perplex  the  minds  of  the  simple 
and  superstitious  yeomanry.  There  are  many  of  the 
tastes  and  caprices  of  the  rich,  that  in  the  eyes  of  the 
uneducated  must  savor  of  insanity. 

I  was  attracted  to  this  grove,  however,  by  memorials 
of  a  more  touching  character.  It  had  been  one  of  the 
favorite  haunts  of  the  late  Lord  Byron.  In  his  fare 
well  visit  to  the  Abbey,  after  he  had  parted  with  the 
possession  of  it,  he  passed  some  time  in  this  grove,  in 
company  with  his  sister;  and  as  a  last  memento,  en 
graved  their  names  on  the  bark  of  a  tree. 

The  feelings  that  agitated  his  bosom  during  this 
farewell  visit,  when  he  beheld  round  him  objects  dear 
to  his  pride,  and  dear  to  his  juvenile  recollections,  but 
of  which  the  narrowness  of  his  fortune  would  not 
permit  him  to  retain  possession,  may  be  gathered  from 
a  passage  in  a  poetical  epistle,  written  to  his  sister  in 
after-years :  — 

I  did  remind  you  of  pur  own  dear  lake 

By  the  old  hall  which  may  be  mine  no  more; 

Leman's  is  fair ;   but  think  not  I  forsake 
The  sweet  remembrance  of  a  dearer  shore : 


NEWSTEAD  ABBEY  21 

Sad  havoc  Time  must  with  my  memory  make 
Ere  that  or  thou  can  fade  these  eyes  before ; 
Though,  like  all  things  which  I  have  loved,  they  are 
Resign'd  forever,  or  divided  far. 

I  feel  almost  at  times  as  I  have  felt 

In  happy  childhood;  trees,  and  flowers,  and  brooks, 
Which  do  remember  me  of  where  I  dwelt 

Ere  my  young  mind  was  sacrificed  to  books, 
Come  as  of  yore  upon  me,  and  can  melt 

My  heart  with  recognition  of  their  looks; 
And  even  at  moments  I  would  think  I  see 
Some  living  things  I  love  —  but  none  like  thee. 

I  searched  the  grove  for  some  time,  before  I  found 
the  tree  on  which  Lord  Byron  had  left  his  frail  me 
morial.  It  was  an  elm  of  peculiar  form,  having  two 
trunks  which  sprang  from  the  same  root,  and,  after 
growing  side  by  side,  mingled  their  branches  together. 
He  had  selected  it,  doubtless,  as  emblematical  of 
his  sister  and  himself.  The  names  of  BYRON  and 
AUGUSTA  were  still  visible.  They  had  been  deeply 
cut  in  the  bark,  but  the  natural  growth  of  the  tree  was 
gradually  rendering  them  illegible,  and  a  few  years 
hence,  strangers  will  seek  in  vain  for  this  record  of 
fraternal  affection. 

Leaving  the  grove,  I  continued  my  ramble  along  a 
spacious  terrace,  overlooking  what  had  once  been  the 
kitchen-garden  of  the  Abbey.  Below  me  lay  the 
monks'  stew,  or  fish-pond,  a  dark  pool,  overhung  by 
gloomy  cypresses,  with  a  solitary  water-hen  swim 
ming  about  in  it. 

A  little  further  on,  and  the  terrace  looked  down 
upon  the  stately  scene  on  the  south  side  of  the  Abbey ; 
the  flower-garden,  with  its  stone  balustrades  and 
stately  peacocks,  the  lawn,  with  its  pheasants  and  par 
tridges,  and  the  soft  valley  of  Newstead  beyond. 

At  a  distance,  on  the  border  of  the  lawn,  stood  an 
other  memento  of  Lord  Byron;  an  oak  planted  by 
him  in  his  boyhood,  on  his  first  visit  to  the  Abbey. 


22  NEWSTEAD  ABBEY 

With  a  superstitious  feeling  inherent  in  him,  he  linked 
his  own  destiny  with  that  of  the  tree.  "  As  it  fares," 
said  he,  "  so  will  fare  my  fortunes."  Several  years 
elapsed,  many  of  them  passed  in  idleness  and  dissipa 
tion.  He  returned  to  the  Abbey  a  youth  scarce  grown 
to  manhood,  but,  as  he  thought,  with  vices  and  follies 
beyond  his  years.  He  found  his  emblem  oak  almost 
choked  by  weeds  and  brambles,  and  took  the  lesson 
to  himself. 

Young  oak,  when  I  planted  thee  deep  in  the  ground, 
I  hoped  that  thy  days  would  be  longer  than  mine, 

That  thy  dark  waving  branches  would  flourish  around, 
And  ivy  thy  trunk  with  its  mantle  entwine. 

Such,  such  was  my  hope  —  when  in  infancy's  years 
On  the  land  of  my  fathers  I  reared  thee  with  pride ; 

They  are  past,  and  I  water  thy  stem  with  my  tears  — 
Thy  decay  not  the  weeds  that  surround  thee  can  hide. 

I  leaned  over  the  stone  balustrade  of  the  terrace, 
and  gazed  upon  the  valley  of  Newstead,  with  its  silver 
sheets  of  water  gleaming  in  the  morning  sun.  It  was 
a  Sabbath  morning,  which  always  seems  to  have  a 
hallowed  influence  over  the  landscape,  probably  from 
the  quiet  of  the  day,  and  the  cessation  of  all  kinds  of 
week-day  labor.  As  I  mused  upon  the  mild  and  beau 
tiful  scene,  and  the  wayward  destinies  of  the  man 
whose  stormy  temperament  forced  him  from  this  tran 
quil  paradise  to  battle  with  the  passions  and  perils  of 
the  world,  the  sweet  chime  of  bells  from  a  village  a 
few  miles  distant  came  stealing  up  the  valley.  Every 
sight  and  sound  this  morning  seemed  calculated  to 
summon  up  touching  recollections  of  poor  Byron.  The 
chime  was  from  the  village  spire  of  Hucknall  Torkard, 
beneath  which  his  remains  lie  buried ! 

I  have  since  visited  his  tomb.  It  is  in  an  old 

gray  country  church,  venerable  with  the  lapse  of  cen 
turies.  He  lies  buried  beneath  the  pavement,  at  one 
end  of  the  principal  aisle.  A  light  falls  on  the  spot 


NEWSTEAD  ABBEY  23 

through  the  stained  glass  of  a  Gothic  window,  and  a 
tablet  on  the  adjacent  wall  announces  the  family  vault 
of  the  Byrons.  It  had  been  the  wayward  intention  of 
the  poet  to  be  entombed,  with  his  faithful  dog,  in  the 
monument  erected  by  him  in  the  garden  of  Newstead 
Abbey.  His  executors  showed  better  judgment  and 
feeling,  in  consigning  his  ashes  to  the  family  sepulchre, 
to  mingle  with  those  of  his  mother  and  his  kindred. 
Here, 

After  life's  fitful  fever,  he  sleeps  well. 
Malice  domestic,  foreign  levy,  nothing 
Can  touch  him  further ! 

How  nearly  did  his  dying  hour  realize  the  wish 
made  by  him,  but  a  few  years  previously,  in  one  of  his 
fitful  moods  of  melancholy  and  misanthropy :  — 

When  time,  or  soon  or  late,  shall  bring 
The  dreamless  sleep  that  lulls  the  dead, 

Oblivion !   may  thy  languid  wing 
Wave  gently  o'er  my  dying  bed ! 

No  band  of  friends  or  heirs  be  there, 
To  weep  or  wish  the  coming  blow : 

No  maiden  with  dishevelled  hair, 
To  feel,  or  feign  decorous  woe. 

But  silent  let  me  sink  to  earth, 
With  no  officious  mourners  near: 

I  would  not  mar  one  hour  of  mirth, 
Nor  startle  friendship  with  a  tear. 

He  died  among  strangers,  in  a  foreign  land,  with 
out  a  kindred  hand  to  close  his  eyes;  yet  he  did  not 
die  unwept.  With  all  his  faults  and  errors,  and  pas 
sions  and  caprices,  he  had  the  gift  of  attaching  his 
humble  dependants  warmly  to  him.  One  of  them,  a 
poor  Greek,  accompanied  his  remains  to  England,  and 
followed  them  to  the  grave.  I  am  told  that,  during 
the  ceremony,  he  stood  holding  on  by  a  pew  in  an 
agony  of  grief,  and  when  all  was  over,  seemed  as  if 
he  would  have  gone  down  into  the  tomb  with  the  body 


24  NEWSTEAD  ABBEY 

of  his  master.     A  nature  that  could  inspire  such  at 
tachments,  must  have  been  generous  and  beneficent. 


PLOUGH  MONDAY 

SHERWOOD  FOREST  is  a  region  that  still  retains  much 
of  the  quaint  customs  and  holiday  games  of  the  olden 
time.  A  day  or  two  after  my  arrival  at  the  Abbey,  as 
I  was  walking  in  the  cloisters,  I  heard  the  sound  of 
rustic  music,  and  now  and  then  a  burst  of  merriment, 
proceeding  from  the  interior  of  the  mansion.  Pres 
ently  the  chamberlain  came  and  informed  me  that  a 
party  of  country  lads  were  in  the  servants'  hall,  per 
forming  Plough  Monday  antics,  and  invited  me  to  wit 
ness  their  mummery.  I  gladly  assented,  for  I  am 
somewhat  curious  about  these  relics  of  popular  usages. 
The  servants'  hall  was  a  fit  place  for  the  exhibition  of 
an  old  Gothic  game.  It  was  a  chamber  of  great  extent 
which  in  monkish  times  had  been  the  refectory  of  the 
Abbey.  A  row  of  massive  columns  extended  length 
wise  through  the  centre,  whence  sprung  Gothic  arches, 
supporting  the  low  vaulted  ceiling.  Here  was  a  set  of 
rustics  dressed  up  in  something  of  the  style  repre 
sented  in  the  books  concerning  popular  antiquities. 
One  was  in  a  rough  garb  of  frieze,  with  his  head 
muffled  in  bear-skin,  and  a  bell  dangling  behind  him, 
that  jingled  at  every  movement.  He  was  the  clown, 
or  fool  of  the  party,  probably  a  traditional  representa 
tive  of  the  ancient  satyr.  The  rest  were  decorated 
with  ribbons  and  armed  with  wooden  swords.  The 
leader  of  the  troop  recited  the  old  ballad  of  St.  George 
and  the  Dragon,  which  had  been  current  among  the 
country  people  for  ages;  his  companions  accompanied 
the  recitation  with  some  rude  attempt  at  acting,  while 
the  clown  cut  all  kinds  of  antics. 


NEWSTEAD  ABBEY  25 

To  these  succeeded  a  set  of  morris-dancers,  gayly 
dressed  up  with  ribbons  and  hawks'-bells.  In  this 
troop  we  had  Robin  Hood  and  Maid  Marian,  the 
latter  represented  by  a  smooth-faced  boy:  also,  Beel 
zebub,  equipped  with  a  broom,  and  accompanied  by  his 
wife  Bessy,  a  termagant  old  beldame.  These  rude 
pageants  are  the  lingering  remains  of  the  old  customs 
of  Plough  Monday,  when  bands  of  rustics,  fantasti 
cally  dressed,  and  furnished  with  pipe  and  tabor, 
dragged  what  was  called  the  "  fool  plough "  from 
house  to  house,  singing  ballads  and  performing  antics, 
for  which  they  were  rewarded  with  money  and  good 
cheer. 

But  it  is  not  in  "  merry  Sherwood  Forest "  alone 
that  these  remnants  of  old  times  prevail.  They  are 
to  be  met  with  in  most  of  the  counties  north  of  the 
Trent,  which  classic  stream  seems  to  be  the  boundary- 
line  of  primitive  customs.  During  my  recent  Christ 
mas  sojourn  at  Barlboro  Hall,  on  the  skirts  of  Derby 
shire  and  Yorkshire,  I  had  witnessed  many  of  the 
rustic  festivities  peculiar  to  that  joyous  season,  which 
have  rashly  been  pronounced  obsolete  by  those  who 
draw  their  experience  merely  from  city  life.  I  had 
seen  the  great  Yule  clog  put  on  the  fire  on  Christmas 
Eve,  and  the  wassail-bowl  sent  round,  brimming  with 
its  spicy  beverage.  I  had  heard  carols  beneath  my 
window  by  the  choristers  of  the  neighboring  village, 
who  went  their  rounds  about  the  ancient  Hall  at  mid 
night,  according  to  immemorial  custom.  We  had 
mummers  and  mimers  too,  with  the  story  of  St.  George 
and  the  Dragon,  and  other  ballads  and  traditional  dia 
logues,  together  with  the  famous  old  interlude  of  the 
Hobby  Horse,  all  represented  in  the  antechamber  and 
servants'  hall  by  rustics,  who  inherited  the  custom  and 
the  poetry  from  preceding  generations. 

The  boar's  head,  crowned  with  rosemary,  had  taken 
its  honored  station  among  the  Christmas  cheer;  the 


26  NEWSTEAD  ABBEY 

festal  board  had  been  attended  by  glee-singers  and 
minstrels  from  the  village  to  entertain  the  company 
with  hereditary  songs  and  catches  during  their  repast ; 
and  the  old  Pyrrhic  game  of  the  sword-dance,  handed 
down  since  the  time  of  the  Romans,  was  admirably 
performed  in  the  court-yard  of  the  mansion  by  a  band 
of  young  men,  lithe  and  supple  in  their  forms  and 
graceful  in  their  movements,  who,  I  was  told,  went  the 
rounds  of  the  villages  and  country-seats  during  the 
Christmas  holidays.  », 

I  specify  these  rural  pageants  and  ceremonials,  which 
I  saw  during  my  sojourn  in  this  neighborhood,  because 
it  has  been  deemed  that  some  of  the  anecdotes  of  holi 
day  customs  given  in  my  preceding  writings  related  to 
usages  which  have  entirely  passed  away.  Critics  who 
reside  in  cities  have  little  idea  of  the  primitive  manners 
and  observances  which  still  prevail  in  remote  and  rural 
neighborhoods. 

In  fact,  in  crossing  the  Trent  one  seems  to  step  back 
into  old  times ;  and  in  the  villages  of  Sherwood  Forest 
we  are  in  a  black-letter  region.  The  moss-green  cot 
tages,  the  lowly  mansions  of  gray  stone,  the  Gothic 
crosses  at  each  end  of  the  villages,  and  the  tall  May 
pole  in  the  centre,  transport  us  in  imagination  to  fore 
gone  centuries ;  everything  has  a  quaint  and  antiquated 
air. 

The  tenantry  on  the  Abbey  estate  partake  of  this 
primitive  character.  Some  of  the  families  have  rented 
farms  there  for  nearly  three  hundred  years ;  and,  not 
withstanding  that  their  mansions  fell  to  decay,  and 
everything  about  them  partook  of  the  general  waste 
and  misrule  of  the  Byron  dynasty,  yet  nothing  could 
uproot  them  from  their  native  soil.  I  am  happy  to  say 
that  Colonel  Wildman  has  taken  these  stanch  loyal 
families  under  his  peculiar  care.  He  has  favored  them 
in  their  rents,  repaired,  or  rather  rebuilt  their  farm 
houses,  and  has  enabled  families  that  had  almost  sunk 


NEWSTEAD  ABBEY  27 

into  the  class  of  mere  rustic  laborers  once  more  to  hold 
up  their  heads  among  the  yeomanry  of  the  land. 

I  visited  one  of  these  renovated  establishments  that 
had  but  lately  been  a  mere  ruin,  and  now  was  a  sub 
stantial  grange.  It  was  inhabited  by  a  young  couple. 
The  good  woman  showed  every  part  of  the  establish 
ment  with  decent  pride,  exulting  in  its  comfort  and 
respectability.  Her  husband,  I  understood,  had  risen 
in  consequence  with  the  improvement  of  his  mansion, 
and  now  began  to  be  known  among  his  rustic  neigh 
bors  by  the  appellation  of  "  the  young  Squire." 


OLD  SERVANTS 

IN  an  old,  time-worn,  and  mysterious-looking  mansion 
like  Newstead  Abbey,  and  one  so  haunted  by  monkish 
and  feudal  and  poetical  associations,  it  is  a  prize  to 
meet  with  some  ancient  crone,  who  has  passed  a  long 
life  about  the  place,  so  as  to  have  become  a  living 
chronicle  of  its  fortunes  and  vicissitudes.  Such  a  one 
is  Nanny  Smith,  a  worthy  dame,  near  seventy  years 
of  age,  who  for  a  long  time  served  as  housekeeper  to 
the  Byrons.  The  Abbey  and  its  domains  comprise  her 
world,  beyond  which  she  knows  nothing,  but  within 
which  she  has  ever  conducted  herself  with  native 
shrewdness  and  old-fashioned  honesty.  When  Lord 
Byron  sold  the  Abbey,  her  vocation  was  at  end,  still 
she  lingered  about  the  place,  having  for  it  the  local 
attachment  of  a  cat.  Abandoning  her  comfortable 
housekeeper's  apartment,  she  took  shelter  in  one  of 
the  "  rock  houses,"  which  are  nothing  more  than  a 
little  neighborhood  of  cabins,  excavated  in  the  perpen 
dicular  walls  of  a  stone  quarry,  at  no  great  distance 
from  the  Abbey.  Three  cells,  cut  in  the  living  rock, 
formed  her  dwelling;  these  she  fitted  up  humbly  but 


28  NEWSTEAD  ABBEY 

comfortably;  her  son  William  labored  in  the  neighbor 
hood,  and  aided  to  support  her,  and  Nanny  Smith 
maintained  a  cheerful  aspect  and  an  independent  spirit. 
One  of  her  gossips  suggested  to  her  that  William 
should  marry,  and  bring  home  a  young  wife  to  help 
her  and  take  care  of  her.  "  Nay,  nay,"  replied  Nanny, 
tartly,  "  I  want  no  young  mistress  in  my  house."  So 
much  for  the  love  of  rule  —  poor  Nanny's  house  was 
a  hole  in  a  rock ! 

Colonel  Wildman,  on  taking  possession  of  the 
Abbey,  found  Nanny  Smith  thus  humbly  nestled. 
With  that  active  benevolence  which  characterizes  him, 
he  immediately  set  William  up  in  a  small  farm  on  the 
estate,  where  Nanny  Smith  has  a  comfortable  mansion 
in  her  old  days.  Her  pride  is  roused  by  her  son's  ad 
vancement.  She  remarks  with  exultation  that  people 
treat  William  with  much  more  respect  now  that  he  is 
a  farmer,  than  they  did  when  he  was  a  laborer.  A 
farmer  of  the  neighborhood  has  even  endeavored  to 
make  a  match  between  him  and  his  sister,  but  Nanny 
Smith  has  grown  fastidious,  and  interfered.  The  girl, 
she  said,  was  too  old  for  her  son ;  besides,  she  did  not 
see  that  he  was  in  any  need  of  a  wife. 

"  No,"  said  William,  "  I  ha'  no  great  mind  to  marry 
the  wench;  but  if  the  Colonel  and  his  lady  wish  it,  I 
am  willing.  They  have  been  so  kind  to  me  that  I 
should  think  it  my  duty  to  please  them."  The  Colonel 
and  his  lady,  however,  have  not  thought  proper  to  put 
honest  William's  gratitude  to  so  severe  a  test. 

Another  worthy  whom  Colonel  Wildman  found 
vegetating  upon  the  place,  and  who  had  lived  there  for 
at  least  sixty  years,  was  old  Joe  Murray.  He  had  come 
there  when  a  mere  boy  in  the  train  of  the  "  old  lord," 
about  the  middle  of  the  last  century,  and  had  contin 
ued  with  him  until  his  death.  Having  been  a  cabin- 
boy  when  very  young,  Joe  always  fancied  himself  a 
bit  of  a  sailor,  and  had  charge  of  all  the  pleasure-boats 


NEWSTEAD  ABBEY  29 

on  the  lake,  though  he  afterwards  rose  to  the  dignity 
of  butler.  In  the  latter  days  of  the  old  Lord  Byron, 
when  he  shut  himself  up  from  all  the  world,  Joe  Mur 
ray  was  the  only  servant  retained  by  him,  excepting 
his  housekeeper,  Betty  Hardstaff,  who  was  reputed  to 
have  an  undue  sway  over  him,  and  was  derisively  called 
Lady  Betty,  among  the  country  folk. 

When  the  Abbey  came  into  the  possession  of  the 
late  Lord  Byron,  Joe  Murray  accompanied  it  as  a  fix 
ture.  He  was  reinstated  as  butler  in  the  Abbey,  and 
high  admiral  on  the  lake,  and  his  sturdy  honest  mas 
tiff  qualities  won  so  upon  Lord  Byron  as  even  to  rival 
his  Newfoundland  dog  in  his  affections.  Often,  when 
dining,  he  would  pour  out  a  bumper  of  choice  Madeira, 
and  hand  it  to  Joe  as  he  stood  behind  his  chair.  In 
fact,  when  he  built  the  monumental  tomb  which  stands 
in  the  Abbey  garden,  he  intended  it  for  himself,  Joe 
Murray,  and  the  dog.  The  two  latter  were  to  lie  on 
each  side  of  him.  Boatswain  died  not  long  afterwards, 
and  was  regularly  interred,  and  the  well-known  epi 
taph  inscribed  on  one  side  of  the  monument.  Lord 
Byron  departed  for  Greece;  during  his  absence  a 
gentleman,  to  whom  Joe  Murray  was  showing  the 
tomb,  observed,  "  Well,  old  boy,  you  will  take  your 
place  here  some  twenty  years  hence." 

"I  don't  know  that,  sir,"  growled  Joe,  in  reply; 
"  if  I  was  sure  his  Lordship  would  come  here,  I  should 
like  it  well  enough,  but  I  should  not  like  to  lie  alone 
with  the  dog." 

Joe  Murray  was  always  extremely  neat  in  his  dress, 
and  attentive  to  his  person,  and  made  a  most  respect 
able  appearance.  A  portrait  of  him  still  hangs  in  the 
Abbey,  representing  him  a  hale  fresh-looking  fellow, 
in  a  flaxen  wig,  a  blue  coat  and  buff  waistcoat,  with  a 
pipe  in  his  hand.  He  discharged  all  the  duties  of  his 
station  with  great  fidelity,  unquestionable  honesty,  and 
much  outward  decorum;  but,  if  we  may  believe  his 


30  NEWSTEAD  ABBEY 

contemporary,  Nanny  Smith,  who,  as  housekeeper, 
shared  the  sway  of  the  household  with  him,  he  was 
very  lax  in  his  minor  morals,  and  used  to  sing  loose 
and  profane  songs  as  he  presided  at  the  table  in  the 
servants'  hall,  or  sat  taking  his  ale  and  smoking  his 
pipe  by  the  evening  fire.  Joe  had  evidently  derived 
his  convivial  notions  from  the  race  of  English  country 
squires  who  flourished  in  the  days  of  his  juvenility. 
Nanny  Smith  was  scandalized  at  his  ribald  songs,  but 
being  above  harm  herself,  endured  them  in  silence. 
At  length,  on  his  singing  them  before  a  young  girl  of 
sixteen,  she  could  contain  herself  no  longer,  but  read 
him  a  lecture  that  made  his  ears  ring,  and  then  flounced 
off  to  bed.  The  lecture  seems,  by  her  account,  to  have 
staggered  Joe,  for  he  told  her  the  next  morning  that 
he  had  had  a  terrible  dream  in  the  night.  An  Evan 
gelist  stood  at  the  foot  of  his  bed  with  a  great  Dutch 
Bible,  which  he  held  with  the  printed  part  towards  him, 
and  after  a  while  pushed  it  in  his  face.  Nanny  Smith 
undertook  to  interpret  the  vision,  and  read  from  it 
such  a  homily,  and  deduced  such  awful  warnings,  that 
Joe  became  quite  serious,  left  off  singing,  and  took  to 
reading  good  books  for  a  month ;  but  after  that,  con 
tinued  Nanny,  he  relapsed  and  became  as  bad  as  ever, 
and  continued  to  sing  loose  and  profane  songs  to  his 
dying  day. 

When  Colonel  Wildman  became  proprietor  of  the 
Abbey,  he  found  Joe  Murray  flourishing  in  a  green  old 
age,  though  upwards  of  fourscore,  and  continued  him 
in  his  station  as  butler.  The  old  man  was  rejoiced  at 
the  extensive  repairs  that  were  immediately  com 
menced,  and  anticipated  with  pride  the  day  when  the 
Abbey  should  rise  out  of  its  ruins  with  renovated  splen 
dor,  its  gates  be  thronged  with  trains  and  equipages, 
and  its  halls  once  more  echo  to  the  sound  of  joyous 
hospitality. 

What  chiefly,  however,  concerned  Joe's  pride  and 


NEWSTEAD  ABBEY  31 

ambition,  was  a  plan  of  the  Colonel's  to  have  the  an 
cient  refectory  of  the  convent,  a  great  vaulted  room, 
supported  by  Gothic  columns,  converted  into  a  ser 
vants'  hall.  Here  Joe  looked  forward  to  rule  the  roast 
at  the  head  of  the  servants'  table,  and  to  make  the 
Gothic  arches  ring  with  those  hunting  and  hard-drink 
ing  ditties  which  were  the  horror  of  the  discreet  Nanny 
Smith.  Time,  however,  was  fast  wearing  away  with 
him,  and  his  great  fear  was  that  the  hall  would  not  be 
completed  in  his  day.  In  his  eagerness  to  hasten  the 
repairs,  he  used  to  get  up  early  in  the  morning,  and 
ring  up  the  workmen.  Notwithstanding  his  great  age, 
also,  he  would  turn  out  half -dressed  in  cold  weather 
to  cut  sticks  for  the  fire.  Colonel  Wildman  kindly 
remonstrated  with  him  for  thus  risking  his  health,  as 
others  would  do  the  work  for  him. 

"  Lord,  sir,"  exclaimed  the  hale  old  fellow,  "  it 's 
my  air-bath,  I  'm  all  the  better  for  it." 

Unluckily,  as  he  was  thus  employed  one  morning, 
a  splinter  flew  up  and  wounded  one  of  his  eyes.  An 
inflammation  took  place ;  he  lost  the  sight  of  that  eye, 
and  subsequently  of  the  other.  Poor  Joe  gradually 
pined  away,  and  grew  melancholy.  Colonel  Wildman 
kindly  tried  to  cheer  him  up.  "  Come,  come,  old  boy," 
cried  he,  "  be  of  good  heart ;  you  will  yet  take  your 
place  in  the  servants'  hall." 

"  Nay,  nay,  sir,"  replied  he,  "  I  did  hope  once  that 
I  should  live  to  see  it;  I  looked  forward  to  it  with 
pride,  I  confess ;  but  it  is  all  over  with  me  now,  —  I 
shall  soon  go  home !  " 

He  died  shortly  afterwards,  at  the  advanced  age  of 
eighty-six,  seventy  of  which  had  been  passed  as  an 
honest  and  faithful  servant  at  the  Abbey.  Colonel 
Wildman  had  him  decently  interred  in  the  church  of 
Hucknall  Torkard,  near  the  vault  of  Lord  Byron. 


32  NEWSTEAD  ABBEY 


SUPERSTITIONS  OF  THE  ABBEY 

THE  anecdotes  I  had  heard  of  the  quondam  house 
keeper  of  Lord  Byron,  rendered  me  desirous  of  paying 
her  a  visit.  I  rode  in  company  with  Colonel  Wildman, 
therefore,  to  the  cottage  of  her  son  William,  where  she 
resides,  and  found  her  seated  by  her  fireside,  with  a 
favorite  cat  perched  upon  her  shoulder  and  purring  in 
her  ear.  Nanny  Smith  is  a  large,  good-looking  woman, 
a  specimen  of  the  old-fashioned  country  housewife, 
combining  antiquated  notions  and  prejudices,  and  very 
limited  information,  with  natural  good  sense.  She 
loves  to  gossip  about  the  Abbey  and  Lord  Byron,  and 
was  soon  drawn  into  a  course  of  anecdotes,  though 
mostly  of  an  humble  kind,  such  as  suited  the  meridian 
of  the  housekeeper's  room  and  servants'  hall.  She 
seemed  to  entertain  a  kind  recollection  of  Lord  Byron, 
though  she  had  evidently  been  much  perplexed  by  some 
of  his  vagaries ;  and  especially  by  the  means  he  adopted 
to  counteract  his  tendency  to  corpulency.  He  used 
various  modes  to  sweat  himself  down:  sometimes  he 
would  lie  for  a  long  time  in  a  warm  bath,  sometimes 
he  would  walk  up  the  hills  in  the  park,  wrapped  up  and 
loaded  with  great-coats ;  "  a  sad  toil  for  the  poor 
youth,"  added  Nanny,  "  he  being  so  lame." 

His  meals  were  scanty  and  irregular,  consisting  of 
dishes  which  Nanny  seemed  to  hold  in  great  contempt, 
such  as  pilaw,  maccaroni,  and  light  puddings. 

She  contradicted  the  report  of  the  licentious  life 
which  he  was  reported  to  lead  at  the  Abbey,  and  of  the 
paramours  said  to  have  been  brought  with  him  from 
London.  "  A  great  part  of  his  time  used  to  be  passed 
lying  on  a  sofa  reading.  Sometimes  he  had  young 
gentlemen  of  his  acquaintance  with  him,  and  they 


NEWSTEAD  ABBEY  33 

played  some  mad  pranks ;  but  nothing  but  what  young 
gentlemen  may  do,  and  no  harm  done." 

"  Once,  it  is  true,"  she  added,  "  he  had  with  him  a 
beautiful  boy  as  a  page,  which  the  housemaids  said  was 
a  girl.  For  my  part,  I  know  nothing  about  it.  Poor 
soul,  he  was  so  lame  he  could  not  go  out  much  with 
the  men ;  all  the  comfort  he  had  was  to  be  a  little  with 
the  lasses.  The  housemaids,  however,  were  very  jeal 
ous  ;  one  of  them,  in  particular,  took  the  matter  in  great 
dudgeon.  Her  name  was  Lucy;  she  was  a  great  fa 
vorite  with  Lord  Byron,  and  had  been  much  noticed 
by  him,  and  began  to  have  high  notions.  She  had  her 
fortune  told  by  a  man  who  squinted,  to  whom  she  gave 
two-and-sixpence.  He  told  her  to  hold  up  her  head 
and  look  high,  for  she  would  come  to  great  things. 
Upon  this,"  added  Nanny,  "  the  poor  thing  dreamt  of 
nothing  less  than  becoming  a  lady,  and  mistress  of  the 
Abbey;  and  promised  me,  if  such  luck  should  happen 
to  her,  she  would  be  a  good  friend  to  me.  Ah,  wella- 
day!  Lucy  never  had  the  fine  fortune  she  dreamt  of; 
but  she  had  better  than  I  thought  for ;  she  is  now  mar 
ried,  and  keeps  a  public  house  at  Warwick." 

Finding  that  we  listened  to  her  with  great  attention, 
Nanny  Smith  went  on  with  her  gossiping.  "  One 
time,"  said  she,  "  Lord  Byron  took  a  notion  that  there 
was  a  deal  of  money  buried  about  the  Abbey  by  the 
monks  in  old  times,  and  nothing  would  serve  him  but 
he  must  have  the  flagging  taken  up  in  the  cloisters; 
and  they  digged  and  digged,  but  found  nothing  but 
stone  coffins  full  of  bones.  Then  he  must  needs  have 
one  of  the  coffins  put  in  one  end  of  the  great  hall,  so 
that  the  servants  were  afraid  to  go  there  of  nights. 
Several  of  the  skulls  were  cleaned  and  put  in  frames  in 
his  room.  I  used  to  have  to  go  into  the  room  at  night 
to  shut  the  windows,  and  if  I  glanced  an  eye  at  them, 
they  all  seemed  to  grin,  which  I  believe  skulls  always 
do.  I  can't  say  but  I  was  glad  to  get  out  of  the  room. 


34  NEWSTEAD  ABBEY 

"  There  was  at  one  time  (and  for  that  matter  there 
is  still)  a  good  deal  said  about  ghosts  haunting  about 
the  Abbey.  The  keeper's  wife  said  she  saw  two  stand 
ing  in  a  dark  part  of  the  cloisters  just  opposite  the 
chapel,  and  one  in  the  garden  by  the  lord's  well.  Then 
there  was  a  young  lady,  a  cousin  of  Lord  Byron,  who 
was  staying  in  the  Abbey,  and  slept  in  the  room  next  the 
clock;  and  she  told  me  that  one  night  when  she  was 
lying  in  bed,  she  saw  a  lady  in  white  come  out  of  the 
wall  on  one  side  of  the  room,  and  go  into  the  wall  on 
the  opposite  side. 

"  Lord  Byron  one  day  said  to  me,  '  Nanny,  what 
nonsense  they  tell  about  ghosts,  as  if  there  ever  were 
any  such  things.  I  have  never  seen  anything  of  the 
kind  about  the  Abbey,  and  I  warrant  you  have  not/ 
This  was  all  done,  do  you  see,  to  draw  me  out;  but 
I  said  nothing,  but  shook  my  head.  However,  they 
say  his  lordship  did  once  see  something.  It  was  in  the 
great  hall:  something  all  black  and  hairy:  he  said 
it  was  the  devil. 

"  For  my  part,"  continued  Nanny  Smith,  "  I  never 
saw  anything  of  the  kind,  —  but  I  heard  something 
once.  I  was  one  evening  scrubbing  the  floor  of  the 
little  dining-room  at  the  end  of  the  long  gallery;  it 
was  after  dark ;  I  expected  every  moment  to  be  called 
to  tea,  but  wished  to  finish  what  I  was  about.  All  at 
once  I  heard  heavy  footsteps  in  the  great  hall.  They 
sounded  like  the  tramp  of  a  horse.  I  took  the  light  and 
went  to  see  what  it  was.  I  heard  the  steps  come  from 
the  lower  end  of  the  hall  to  the  fireplace  in  the  centre, 
where  they  stopped;  but  I  could  see  nothing.  I  re 
turned  to  my  work,  and  in  a  little  time  heard  the  same 
noise  again.  I  went  again  with  the  light ;  the  footsteps 
stopped  by  the  fireplace  as  before ;  still  I  could  see  noth 
ing.  I  returned  to  my  work,  when  I  heard  the  steps 
for  a  third  time.  I  then  went  into  the  hall  without  a 
light,  but  they  stopped  just  the  same,  by  the  fireplace 


NEWSTEAD  ABBEY  35 

half-way  up  the  hall.  I  thought  this  rather  odd,  but 
returned  to  my  work.  When  it  was  finished,  I  took  the 
light  and  went  through  the  hall,  as  that  was  my  way  to 
the  kitchen.  I  heard  no  more  footsteps,  and  thought 
no  more  of  the  matter,  when,  on  coming  to  the  lower 
end  of  the  hall,  I  found  the  door  locked,  and  then, 
on  one  side  of  the  door,  I  saw  the  stone  coffin  with 
the  skull  and  bones  that  had  been  digged  up  in  the 
cloisters." 

Here  Nanny  paused:  I  asked  her  if  she  believed 
that  the  mysterious  footsteps  had  any  connection  with 
the  skeleton  in  the  coffin ;  but  she  shook  her  head,  and 
would  not  commit  herself.  We  took  our  leave  of  the 
good  old  dame  shortly  after,  and  the  story  she  had 
related  gave  subject  for  conversation  on  our  ride  home 
ward.  It  was  evident  she  had  spoken  the  truth  as  to 
what  she  had  heard,  but  had  been  deceived  by  some 
peculiar  effect  of  sound.  Noises  are  propagated  about 
a  huge  irregular  edifice  of  the  kind  in  a  very  deceptive 
manner;  footsteps  are  prolonged  and  reverberated  by 
the  vaulted  cloisters  and  echoing  halls;  the  creaking 
and  slamming  of  distant  gates,  the  rushing  of  the  blast 
through  the  groves  and  among  the  ruined  arches  of  the 
chapel,  have  all  a  strangely  delusive  effect  at  night. 

Colonel  Wildman  gave  an  instance  of  the  kind  from 
his  own  experience.  Not  long  after  he  had  taken  up 
his  residence  at  the  Abbey,  he  heard  one  moonlight 
night  a  noise  as  if  a  carriage  was  passing  at  a  distance. 
He  opened  the  window  and  leaned  out.  It  then  seemed 
as  if  the  great  iron  roller  was  dragged  along  the  gravel- 
walks  and  terrace,  but  there  was  nothing  to  be  seen. 
When  he  saw  the  gardener  on  the  following  morning, 
he  questioned  him  about  working  so  late  at  night.  The 
gardener  declared  that  no  one  had  been  at  work,  and 
the  roller  was  chained  up.  He  was  sent  to  examine  it, 
and  came  back  with  a  countenance  full  of  surprise. 
The  roller  had  been  moved  in  the  night,  but  he  declared 


36  NEWSTEAD  ABBEY 

no  mortal  hand  could  have  moved  it.  "  Well,"  replied 
the  Colonel,  good-humoredly,  "  I  am  glad  to  find  I 
have  a  brownie  to  work  for  me." 

Lord  Byron  did  much  to  foster  and  give  currency  to 
the  superstitious  tales  connected  with  the  Abbey,  by 
believing,  or  pretending  to  believe  in  them.  Many 
have  supposed  that  his  mind  was  really  tinged  with 
superstition,  and  that  this  innate  infirmity  was  in 
creased  by  passing  much  of  his  time  in  a  lonely  way, 
about  the  empty  halls  and  cloisters  of  the  Abbey,  then 
in  a  ruinous  melancholy  state,  and  brooding  over  the 
skulls  and  effigies  of  its  former  inmates.  I  should 
rather  think  that  he  found  poetical  enjoyment  in  these 
supernatural  themes,  and  that  his  imagination  de 
lighted  to  people  this  gloomy  and  romantic  pile  with 
all  kinds  of  shadowy  inhabitants.  Certain  it  is,  the 
aspect  of  the  mansion  under  the  varying  influence  of 
twilight  and  moonlight,  and  cloud  and  sunshine  oper 
ating  upon  its  halls,  and  galleries,  and  monkish  clois 
ters,  is  enough  to  breed  all  kinds  of  fancies  in  the 
minds  of  its  inmates,  especially  if  poetically  or  super- 
stitiously  inclined. 

I  have  already  mentioned  some  of  the  fabled  visit 
ants  of  the  Abbey.  The  goblin  friar,  however,  is  the 
one  to  whom  Lord  Byron  has  given  the  greatest  im 
portance.  It  walked  the  cloisters  by  night,  and  some 
times  glimpses  of  it  were  seen  in  other  parts  of  the 
Abbey.  Its  appearance  was  said  to  portend  some  im 
pending  evil  to  the  master  of  the  mansion.  Lord 
Byron  pretended  to  have  seen  it  about  a  month  be 
fore  he  contracted  his  ill-starred  marriage  with  Miss 
Milbanke. 

He  has  embodied  this  tradition  in  the  following 
ballad,  in  which  he  represents  the  friar  as  one  of  the 
ancient  inmates  of  the  Abbey,  maintaining  by  night  a 
kind  of  spectral  possession  of  it,  in  right  of  the  fra 
ternity.  Other  traditions,  however,  represent  him  as 


NEWSTEAD  ABBEY  37 

one  of  the  friars  doomed  to  wander  about  the  place  in 
atonement  for  his  crimes.    But  to  the  ballad. 

Beware  !  beware  !  of  the  Black  Friar, 

Who  sitteth  by  Norman  stone, 
For  he  mutters  his  prayer  in  the  midnight  air, 

And  his  mass  of  the  days  that  are  gone. 
When  the  Lord  of  the  Hill,  Amundeville, 

Made  Norman  Church  his  prey, 
And  expell'd  the  friars,  one  friar  still 

Would  not  be  driven  away. 

Though  he  came  in  his  might,  with  King  Henry's  right, 

To  turn  church  lands  to  lay, 
With  sword  in  hand,  and  torch  to  light 

Their  walls,  if  they  said  nay, 
A  monk  remain'd,  unchased,  unchain'd, 

And  he  did  not  seem  form'd  of  clay, 
For  he  's  seen  in  the  porch,  and  he  's  seen  in  the  church 

Though  he  is  not  seen  by  day. 

And  whether  for  good,  or  whether  for  ill, 

It  is  not  mine  to  say; 
But  still  to  the  house  of  Amundeville 

He  abideth  night  and  day. 
By  the  marriage-bed  of  their  lords,  't  is  said, 

He  flits  on  the  bridal  eve; 
And  't  is  held  as  faith,  to  their  bed  of  death 

He  comes  —  but  not  to  grieve. 

When  an  heir  is  born,  he  is  heard  to  mourn, 

And  when  aught  is  to  befall 
That  ancient  line,  in  the  pale  moonshine 

He  walks  from  hall  to  hall. 
His  form  you  may  trace,  but  not  his  face, 

'T  is  shadow'd  by  his  cowl; 
But  his  eyes  may  be  seen  from  the  folds  between 

And  they  seem  of  a  parted  soul. 

But  beware !  beware  of  the  Black  Friar, 

He  still  retains  his  sway, 
For  he  is  yet  the  church's  heir 

Whoever  may  be  the  lay. 
Amundeville  is  lord  by  day, 

But  the  monk  is  lord  by  night, 
Nor  wine  nor  wassail  could  raise  a  vassal 

To  question  that  friar's  right. 

Say  naught  to  him  as  he  walks  the  hall, 
And  he  '11  say  naught  to  you ; 


38  NEWSTEAD  ABBEY 

He  sweeps  along  in  his  dusky  pall, 

As  o'er  the  grass  the  dew. 
Then  gramercy !   for  the  Black  Friar ; 

Heaven  sain  him !   fair  or  foul, 
And  whatsoe'er  may  be  his  prayer, 

Let  ours  be  for  his  soul. 

Such  is  the  story  of  the  goblin  friar,  which,  partly 
through  old  tradition,  and  partly  through  the  influence 
of  Lord  Byron's  rhymes,  has  become  completely  es 
tablished  in  the  Abbey,  and  threatens  to  hold  posses 
sion  as  long  as  the  old  edifice  shall  endure.  Various 
visitors  have  either  fancied,  or  pretended  to  have  seen 
him,  and  a  cousin  of  Lord  Byron,  Miss  Sally  Parkins, 
is  even  said  to  have  made  a  sketch  of  him  from  mem 
ory.  As  to  the  servants  at  the  Abbey,  they  have  be 
come  possessed  with  all  kinds  of  superstitious  fancies. 
The  long  corridors  and  Gothic  halls,  with  their  ancient 
portraits  and  dark  figures  in  armor,  are  all  haunted 
regions  to  them ;  they  even  fear  to  sleep  alone,  and  will 
scarce  venture  at  night  on  any  distant  errand  about  the 
Abbey  unless  they  go  in  couples. 

Even  the  magnificent  chamber  in  which  I  was  lodged 
was  subject  to  the  supernatural  influences  which 
reigned  over  the  Abbey,  and  was  said  to  be  haunted  by 
"  Sir  John  Byron  the  Little  with  the  great  Beard." 
The  ancient  black-looking  portrait  of  this  family 
worthy,  which  hangs  over  the  door  of  the  great  saloon, 
was  said  to  descend  occasionally  at  midnight  from  the 
frame,  and  walk  the  rounds  of  the  state  apartments. 
Nay,  his  visitations  were  not  confined  to  the  night, 
for  a  young  lady,  on  a  visit  to  the  Abbey  some  years 
since,  declared  that,  on  passing  in  broad  day  by  the 
door  of  the  identical  chamber  I  have  described,  which 
stood  partly  open,  she  saw  Sir  John  Byron  the  Little 
seated  by  the  fireplace,  reading  out  of  a  great  black- 
letter  book.  From  this  circumstance  some  have  been 
led  to  suppose  that  the  story  of  Sir  John  Byron  may 
be  in  some  measure  connected  with  the  mysterious 


NEWSTEAD  ABBEY  39 

sculptures  of  the  chimney-piece  already  mentioned; 
but  this  has  no  countenance  from  the  most  authentic 
antiquarians  of  the  Abbey. 

For  my  own  part,  the  moment  I  learned  the  wonder 
ful  stories  and  strange  suppositions  connected  with  my 
apartment,  it  became  an  imaginary  realm  to  me.  As 
I  lay  in  bed  at  night  and  gazed  at  the  mysterious  panel- 
work,  where  Gothic  knight,  and  Christian  dame,  and 
Paynim  lover  gazed  upon  me  in  effigy,  I  used  to  weave 
a  thousand  fancies  concerning  them.  The  great  figures 
in  the  tapestry,  also,  were  almost  animated  by  the 
workings  of  my  imagination,  and  the  Vandyke  por 
traits  of  the  cavalier  and  lady  that  looked  down 
with  pale  aspects  from  the  wall,  had  almost  a  spec 
tral  effect,  from  their  immovable  gaze  and  silent 
companionship ;  — 

For  by  dim  lights  the  portraits  of  the  dead 
Have  something  ghastly,  desolate,  and  dread. 

.    .    .  Their  buried  locks  still  wave 
Along  the  canvas ;  their  eyes  glance  like  dreams 

On  ours,  as  spars  within  some  dusky  cave, 
But  death  is  mingled  in  their  shadowy  beams. 

In  this  way  I  used  to  conjure  up  fictions  of  the  brain, 
and  clothe  the  objects  around  me  with  ideal  interest 
and  import,  until,  as  the  Abbey  clock  tolled  midnight, 
I  almost  looked  to  see  Sir  John  Byron  the  Little  with 
the  long  Beard  stalk  into  the  room  with  his  book  under 
his  arm,  and  take  his  seat  beside  the  mysterious 
chimney-piece. 


ANNESLEY   HALL 

AT  about  three  miles'  distance  from  Newstead  Abbey, 
and  contiguous  to  its  lands,  is  situated  Annesley  Hall, 
the  old  family  mansion  of  the  Chaworths.  The  fami 
lies,  like  the  estates,  of  the  Byrons  and  Chaworths  were 


40  NEWSTEAD  ABBEY 

connected  in  former  times,  until  the  fatal  duel  between 
their  two  representatives.  The  feud,  however,  which 
prevailed  for  a  time,  promised  to  be  cancelled  by  the 
attachment  of  two  youthful  hearts.  While  Lord  Byron 
was  yet  a  boy,  he  beheld  Mary  Ann  Chaworth,  a  beau 
tiful  girl,  and  the  sole  heiress  of  Annesley.  With  that 
susceptibility  to  female  charms  which  he  evinced  almost 
from  childhood,  he  became  almost  immediately  enam 
ored  of  her.  According  to  one  of  his  biographers,  it 
would  appear  that  at  first  their  attachment  was  mutual, 
yet  clandestine.  The  father  of  Miss  Chaworth  was 
then  living,  and  may  have  retained  somewhat  of  the 
family  hostility,  for  we  are  told  that  the  interviews 
of  Lord  Byron  and  the  young  lady  were  private,  at  a 
gate  which  opened  from  her  father's  grounds  to  those 
of  Newstead.  However,  they  were  so  young  at  the 
time  that  these  meetings  could  not  have  been  regarded 
as  of  any  importance :  they  were  little  more  than  chil 
dren  in  years ;  but,  as  Lord  Byron  says  of  himself,  his 
feelings  were  beyond  his  age. 

The  passion  thus  early  conceived  was  blown  into  a 
flame,  during  a  six  weeks'  vacation  which  he  passed 
with  his  mother  at  Nottingham.  The  father  of  Miss 
Chaworth  was  dead,  and  she  resided  with  her  mother 
at  the  old  Hall  of  Annesley.  During  Byron's  minor 
ity,  the  estate  of  Newstead  was  let  to  Lord  Grey  de 
Ruthen,  but  its  youthful  Lord  was  always  a  welcome 
guest  at  the  Abbey.  He  would  pass  days  at  a  time 
there,  and  make  frequent  visits  thence  to  Annesley 
Hall.  His  visits  were  encouraged  by  Miss  Chaworth's 
mother ;  she  partook  none  of  the  family  feud,  and  prob 
ably  looked  with  complacency  upon  an  attachment  that 
might  heal  old  differences  and  unite  two  neighboring 
estates. 

The  six  weeks'  vacation  passed  as  a  dream  amongst 
the  beautiful  flowers  of  Annesley.  Byron  was  scarce 
fifteen  years  of  age,  Mary  Chaworth  was  two  years 


NEWSTEAD  ABBEY  41 

older;  but  his  heart,  as  I  have  said,  was  beyond  his 
age,  and  his  tenderness  for  her  was  deep  and  passion 
ate.  These  early  loves,  like  the  first  run  of  the  un- 
crushed  grape,  are  the  sweetest  and  strongest  gushings 
of  the  heart,  and  however  they  may  be  superseded  by 
other  attachments  in  after-years,  the  memory  will  con 
tinually  recur  to  them,  and  fondly  dwell  upon  their 
recollections. 

His  love  for  Miss  Chaworth,  to  use  Lord  Byron's 
own  expression,  was  "  the  romance  of  the  most  roman 
tic  period  of  his  life,"  and  I  think  we  can  trace  the 
effect  of  it  throughout  the  whole  course  of  his  writings, 
coming  up  every  now  and  then,  like  some  lurking 
theme  which  runs  through  a  complicated  piece  of 
music,  and  links  it  all  in  a  pervading  chain  of  melody. 

How  tenderly  and  mournfully  does  he  recall,  in 
after-years,  the  feelings  awakened  in  his  youthful  and 
inexperienced  bosom  by  this  impassioned,  yet  innocent 
attachment;  feelings,  he  says,  lost  or  hardened  in  the 
intercourse  of  life :  — 

The  love  of  better  things  and  better  days; 

The  unbounded  hope,  and  heavenly  ignorance 
Of  what  is  called  the  world,  and  the  world's  ways; 

The  moments  when  we  gather  from  a  glance 
More  joy  than  from  all  future  pride  or  praise, 

Which  kindle  manhood,  but  can  ne'er  entrance 
The  heart  in  an  existence  of  its  own, 
Of  which  another's  bosom  is  the  zone. 

Whether  this  love  was  really  responded  to  by  the 
object,  is  uncertain.  Byron  sometimes  speaks  as  if  he 
had  met  with  kindness  in  return,  at  other  times  he  ac 
knowledges  that  she  never  gave  him  reason  to  believe 
she  loved  him.  It  is  probable,  however,  that  at  first 
she  experienced  some  flutterings  of  the  heart.  She  was 
of  a  susceptible  age;  had  as  yet  formed  no  other  at 
tachments;  her  lover,  though  boyish  in  years,  was 
a  man  in  intellect,  a  poet  in  imagination,  and  had  a 
countenance  of  remarkable  beauty. 


42  NEWSTEAD  ABBEY 

With  the  six  weeks'  vacation  ended  this  brief  ro 
mance.  Byron  returned  to  school  deeply  enamored; 
but  if  he  had  really  made  any  impression  on  Miss  Cha- 
worth's  heart,  it  was  too  slight  to  stand  the  test  of 
absence.  She  was  at  that  age  when  a  female  soon 
changes  from  the  girl  to  the  woman,  and  leaves  her 
boyish  lovers  far  behind  her.  While  Byron  was  pur 
suing  his  schoolboy  studies,  she  was  mingling  with 
society,  and  met  with  a  gentleman  of  the  name  of  Mus 
ters,  remarkable,  it  is  said,  for  manly  beauty.  A  story 
is  told  of  her  having  first  seen  him  from  the  top  of 
Annesley  Hall,  as  he  dashed  through  the  park,  with 
hound  and  horn,  taking  the  lead  of  the  whole  field  in 
a  fox-chase,  and  that  she  was  struck  by  the  spirit 
of  his  appearance,  and  his  admirable  horsemanship. 
Under  such  favorable  auspices  he  wooed  and  won  her ; 
and  when  Lord  Byron  next  met  her,  he  learned  to  his 
dismay  that  she  was  the  affianced  bride  of  another. 

With  that  pride  of  spirit  which  always  distinguished 
him,  he  controlled  his  feelings  and  maintained  a  serene 
countenance.  He  even  affected  to  speak  calmly  on  the 
subject  of  her  approaching  nuptials.  ''  The  next  time 
I  see  you,"  said  he,  "  I  suppose  you  will  be  Mrs.  Cha- 
worth,"  (for  she  was  to  retain  her  family  name.) 
Her  reply  was  "  I  hope  so." 

I  have  given  these  brief  details  preparatory  to  a 
sketch  of  a  visit  which  I  made  to  the  scene  of  this 
youthful  romance.  Annesley  Hall  I  understood  was 
shut  up,  neglected,  and  almost  in  a  state  of  desolation ; 
for  Mr.  Musters  rarely  visited  it,  residing  with  his 
family  in  the  neighborhood  of  Nottingham.  I  set  out 
for  the  Hall  on  horseback,  in  company  with  Colonel 
Wildman,  and  followed  by  the  great  Newfoundland 
dog  Boatswain.  In  the  course  of  our  ride  we  visited 
a  spot  memorable  in  the  love-story  I  have  cited.  It  was 
the  scene  of  this  parting  interview  between  Byron  and 
Miss  Chaworth,  prior  to  her  marriage.  A  long  ridge 


43 

of  upland  advances  into  the  valley  of  .Newstead,  like  a 
promontory  into  a  lake,  and  was  formerly  crowned  by 
a  beautiful  grove,  a  landmark  to  the  neighboring  coun 
try.  The  grove  and  promontory  are  graphically  de 
scribed  by  Lord  Byron  in  his  "  Dream,"  and  an  exqui 
site  picture  given  of  himself,  and  the  lovely  object  of 
his  boyish  idolatry :  — 

I  saw  two  beings  in  the. hues  of  youth 
Standing  upon  a  hill,  a  gentle  hill, 
Green,  and  of  mild  declivity,  the  last 
As  't  were  the  cape  of  a  long  ridge  of  such, 
Save  that  there  was  no  sea  to  lave  its  base, 
But  a  most  living  landscape,  and  the  wave 
Of  woods  and  cornfields,  and  the  abodes  of  men, 
Scatter'd  at  intervals,  and  wreathing  smoke 
Arising  from  such  rustic  roofs;  —  the  hill 
Was  crown'd  with  a  peculiar  diadem 
Of  trees,  in  circular  array,  so  fixed, 
Not  by  the  sport  of  Nature,  but  of  man: 
These  two  a  maiden  and  a  youth,  were  there 
Gazing  —  the  one  on  all  that  was  beneath 
Fair  as  herself  —  but  the  boy  gazed  on  her; 
And  both  were  fair,  and  one  was  beautiful : 
And  both  were  young  —  yet  not  unlike  in  youth 
As  the  sweet  moon  in  the  horizon's  verge, 
The  maid  was  on  the  verge  of  womanhood : 
The  boy  had  fewer  summers,  but  his  heart 
Had  far  outgrown  his  years,  and  to  his  eye 
There  was  but  one  beloved  face  on  earth, 
And  that  was  shining  on  him. 

I  stood  upon  the  spot  consecrated  by  this  memorable 
interview.  Below  me  extended  the  "  living  landscape," 
once  contemplated  by  the  loving  pair ;  the  gentle  valley 
of  Newstead,  diversified  by  woods  and  cornfields,  and 
village  spires,  and  gleams  of  water,  and  the  distant 
towers  and  pinnacles  of  the  venerable  Abbey.  The 
diadem  of  trees,  however,  was  gone.  The  attention 
drawn  to  it  by  the  poet,  and  the  romantic  manner  in 
which  he  had  associated  it  with  his  early  passion  for 
Mary  Chaworth,  had  nettled  the  irritable  feelings  of 
her  husband,  who  but  ill  brooked  the  poetic  celebrity 


44  NEWSTEAD  ABBEY 

conferred  on  his  wife  by  the  enamored  verses  of  an 
other.  The  celebrated  grove  stood  on  his  estate,  and 
in  a  fit  of  spleen  he  ordered  it  to  be  levelled  with  the 
dust.  At  the  time  of  my  visit  the  mere  roots  of  the 
trees  were  visible;  but  the  hand  that  laid  them  low  is 
execrated  by  every  poetical  pilgrim. 

Descending  the  hill,  we  soon  entered  a  part  of  what 
once  was  Annesley  Park,  and  rode  among  time-worn 
and  tempest-riven  oaks  and  elms,  with  ivy  clambering 
about  their  trunks,  and  rooks'  nests  among  their 
branches.  The  park  had  been  cut  up  by  a  post-road, 
crossing  which,  we  came  to  the  gate-house  of  Annesley 
Hall.  It  was  an  old  brick  building  that  might  have 
served  as  an  outpost  or  barbacan  to  the  Hall  during  the 
civil  wars,  when  every  gentleman's  house  was  liable 
to  become  a  fortress.  Loopholes  were  still  visible  in 
its  walls,  but  the  peaceful  ivy  had  mantled  the  sides, 
overrun  the  roof,  and  almost  buried  the  ancient  clock 
in  front,  that  still  marked  the  waning  hours  of  its 
decay. 

An  arched  way  led  through  the  centre  of  the  gate 
house,  secured  by  grated  doors  of  open  iron-work, 
wrought  into  flowers  and  flourishes.  These  being 
thrown  open,  we  entered  a  paved  court-yard,  decorated 
with  shrubs  and  antique  flower-pots,  with  a  ruined 
stone  fountain  in  the  centre.  The  whole  approach  re 
sembled  that  of  an  old  French  chateau. 

On  one  side  of  the  court-yard  was  a  range  of  stables, 
now  tenantless,  but  which  bore  traces  of  the  fox 
hunting  squire;  for  there  were  stalls  boxed  up,  into 
which  the  hunters  might  be  turned  loose  when  they 
came  home  from  the  chase. 

At  the  lower  end  of  the  court,  and  immediately  oj> 
posite  the  gate-house,  extended  the  Hall  itself;  a  ram 
bling,  irregular  pile,  patched  and  pieced  at  various 
times,  and  in  various  tastes,  with  gable  ends,  stone 
balustrades,  and  enormous  chimneys,  that  strutted  out 


NEWSTEAD  ABBEY  45 

like  buttresses  from  the  walls.  The  whole  front  of 
the  edifice  was  overrun  with  evergreens. 

We  applied  for  admission  at  the  front  door  which 
was  under  a  heavy  porch.  The  portal  was  strongly 
barricadoed,  and  our  knocking  was  echoed  by  waste 
and  empty  halls.  Everything  bore  an  appearance  of 
abandonment.  After  a  time,  however,  our  knocking 
summoned  a  solitary  tenant  from  some  remote  corner 
of  the  pile.  It  was  a  decent-looking  little  dame,  who 
emerged  from  a  side-door  at  a  distance,  and  seemed 
a  worthy  inmate  of  the  antiquated  mansion.  She  had, 
in  fact,  grown  old  with  it.  Her  name,  she  said,  was 
Nanny  Marsden;  if  she  lived  until  next  August,  she 
would  be  seventy-one:  a  great  part  of  her  life  had 
been  passed  in  the  Hall,  and  when  the  family  had  re 
moved  to  Nottingham,  she  had  been  left  in  charge  of 
it.  The  front  of  the  house  had  been  thus  warily  bar 
ricadoed  in  consequence  of  the  late  riots  at  Notting 
ham,  in  the  course  of  which  the  dwelling  of  her  master 
had  been  sacked  by  the  mob.  To  guard  against  any 
attempt  of  the  kind  upon  the  Hall,  she  had  put  it  in 
this  state  of  defence;  though  I  rather  think  she  and 
a  superannuated  gardener  comprised  the  whole  garri 
son.  "  You  must  be  attached  to  the  old  building,"  said 
I,  "after  having  lived  so  long  in  it."  —  "Ah,  sir!" 
replied  she,  "  I  am  getting  in  years,  and  have  a  fur 
nished  cottage  of  my  own  in  Annesley  Wood,  and 
begin  to  feel  as  if  I  should  like  to  go  and  live  in  my 
own  home." 

Guided  by  the  worthy  little  custodian  of  the  fortress, 
we  entered  through  the  sally-port  by  which  she  had 
issued  forth,  and  soon  found  ourselves  in  a  spacious 
but  somewhat  gloomy  hall,  where  the  light  was  par 
tially  admitted  through  square  stone-shafted  windows, 
overhung  with  ivy.  Everything  around  us  had  the 
air  of  an  old-fashioned  country  squire's  establishment. 
In  the  centre  of  the  hall  was  a  billiard-table,  and  about 


46  NEWSTEAD  ABBEY 

the  walls  were  hung  portraits  of  race-horses,  hunters, 
and  favorite  dogs,  mingled  indiscriminately  with 
family  pictures. 

Staircases  led  up  from  the  hall  to  various  apart 
ments.  In  one  of  the  rooms  we  were  shown  a  couple 
of  buff  jerkins,  and  a  pair  of  ancient  jackboots,  of  the 
time  of  the  cavaliers;  relics  which  are  often  to  be 
met  with  in  the  old  English  family  mansions.  These, 
however,  had  peculiar  value,  for  the  good  little  dame 
assured  us  they  had  belonged  to  Robin  Hood.  As 
we  were  in  the  midst  of  the  region  over  which  that 
famous  outlaw  once  bore  ruffian  sway,  it  was  not  for 
us  to  gainsay  his  claim  to  any  of  these  venerable 
relics,  though  we  might  have  demurred  that  the  articles 
of  dress  here  shown  were  of  a  date  much  later  than 
his  time.  Every  antiquity,  however,  about  Sherwood 
Forest  is  apt  to  be  linked  with  the  memory  of  Robin 
Hood  and  his  gang. 

As  we  were  strolling  about  the  mansion,  our  four- 
footed  attendant,  Boatswain,  followed  leisurely,  as  if 
taking  a  survey  of  the  premises.  I  turned  to  rebuke 
him  for  his  intrusion,  but  the  moment  the  old  house 
keeper  understood  he  had  belonged  to  Lord  Byron,  her 
heart  seemed  to  yearn  towards  him.  • 

"  Nay,  nay,"  exclaimed  she,  "  let  him  alone,  let  him 
go  where  he  pleases.  He  's  welcome.  Ah,  dear  me ! 
If  he  lived  here  I  should  take  great  care  of  him  —  he 
should  want  for  nothing.  Well!  "  continued  she,  fond 
ling  him,  "  who  would  have  thought  that  I  should  see 
a  dog  of  Lord  Byron  in  Annesley  Hall !  " 

"  I  suppose,  then,"  said  I,  "  you  recollect  something 
of  Lord  Byron,  when  he  used  to  visit  here?  "  -  "  Ah, 
bless  him ! "  cried  she,  "  that  I  do !  He  used  to  ride 
over  here  and  stay  three  days  at  a  time,  and  sleep  in  the 
blue  room.  Ah!  poor  fellow!  He  was  very  much 
taken  with  my  young  mistress ;  he  used  to  walk  about 
the  garden  and  the  terraces  with  her,  and  seemed  to 


NEWSTEAD  ABBEY  47 

love  the  very  ground  she  trod  on.  He  used  to  call  her 
his  bright  morning  star  of  Annesley." 

I  felt  the  beautiful  poetic  phrase  thrill  through  me. 

"  You  appear  to  like  the  memory  of  Lord  Byron," 
said  I. 

"  Ah,  sir !  why  should  not  I  ?  He  was  always  main 
good  to  me  when  he  came  here.  Well !  well !  they  say 
it  is  a  pity  he  and  my  young  lady  did  not  make  a  match. 
Her  mother  would  have  liked  it.  He  was  always  a 
welcome  guest,  and  some  think  it  would  have  been  well 
for  him  to  have  had  her;  but  it  was  not  to  be!  He 
went  away  to  school,  and  then  Mr.  Musters  saw  her, 
and  so  things  took  their  course." 

The  simple  soul  now  showed  us  into  the  favorite 
sitting-room  of  Miss  Chaworth,  with  a  small  flower- 
garden  under  the  windows,  in  which  she  had  delighted. 
In  this  room  Byron  used  to  sit  and  listen  to  her  as  she 
played  and  sang,  gazing  upon  her  with  the  passionate 
and  almost  painful  devotion  of  a  love-sick  stripling. 
He  himself  gives  us  a  glowing  picture  of  his  mute 
idolatry :  — 

He  had  no  breath,  no  being,  but  in  hers ; 
She  was  his  voice;   he  did  not  speak  to  her, 
But  trembled  on  her  words ;   she  was  his  sight, 
For  his  eye  followed  hers,  and  saw  with  hers, 
Which  colored  all  his  objects;  —  he  had  ceased 
To  live  within  himself;  she  was  his  life, 
The  ocean  to  the  river  of  his  thoughts, 
Which  terminated  all :   upon  a  tone, 
A  touch  of  hers,  his  blood  would  ebb  and  flow, 
And  his  cheek  change  tempestuously  —  his  heart 
Unknowing  of  its  cause  of  agony. 

There  was  a  little  Welsh  air,  called  "  Mary  Ann," 
which,  from  bearing  her  own  name,  he  associated  with 
herself,  and  often  persuaded  her  to  sing  it  over  and 
over  for  him. 

The  chamber,  like  all  the  other  parts  of  the  house, 
had  a  look  of  sadness  and  neglect ;  the  flower-pots  be- 


48  NEWSTEAD  ABBEY 

neath  the  window,  which  once  bloomed  beneath  the 
hand  of  Mary  Chaworth,  were  overrun  with  weeds; 
and  the  piano,  which  had  once  vibrated  to  her  touch, 
and  thrilled  the  heart  of  her  stripling  lover,  was  now 
unstrung  and  out  of  tune. 

We  continued  our  stroll  about  the  waste  apartments, 
of  all  shapes  and  sizes,  and  without  much  elegance  of 
decoration.  Some  of  them  were  hung  with  family 
portraits,  among  which  was  pointed  out  that  of  the 
Mr.  Chaworth  who  was  killed  by  the  "  wicked  Lord 
Byron." 

These  dismal-looking  portraits  had  a  powerful  effect 
upon  the  imagination  of  the  stripling  poet,  on  his  first 
visit  to  the  Hall.  As  they  gazed  down  from  the  wall, 
he  thought  they  scowled  upon  him,  as  if  they  had  taken 
a  grudge  against  him  on  account  of  the  duel  of  his 
ancestor.  He  even  gave  this  as  a  reason,  though  prob 
ably  in  jest,  for  not  sleeping  at  the  Hall,  declaring  that 
he  feared  they  would  come  down  from  their  frames 
at  night  to  haunt  him. 

A  feeling  of  the  kind  he  has  embodied  in  one  of  his 
stanzas  of  "  Don  Juan  "  :  — 

The  forms  of  the  grim  knights  and  pictured  saints 
Look  living  in  the  moon ;   and  as  you  turn 

Backward  and  forward  to  the  echoes  faint 
Of  your  own  footsteps  —  voices  from  the  urn 

Appear  to  wake,  and  shadows  wild  and  quaint 

Start  from  the  frames  which  fence  their  aspects  stern, 

As  if  to  ask  you  how  you  dare  to  keep 

A  vigil  there,  where  all  but  death  should  sleep. 

Nor  was  the  youthful  poet  singular  in  these  fancies ; 
the  Hall,  like  most  old  English  mansions  that  have  an 
cient  family  portraits  hanging  about  their  dusky  gal 
leries  and  waste  apartments,  had  its  ghost-story  con 
nected  with  these  pale  memorials  of  the  dead.  Our 
simple-hearted  conductor  stopped  before  the  portrait 
of  a  lady,  who  had  been  a  beauty  in  her  time,  and 
inhabited  the  Hall  in  the  heyday  of  her  charms.  Some- 


NEWSTEAD  ABBEY  49 

thing  mysterious  or  melancholy  was  connected  with 
her  story;  she  died  young,  but  continued  for  a  long 
time  to  haunt  the  ancient  mansion,  to  the  great  dismay 
of  the  servants,  and  the  occasional  disquiet  of  the  vis 
itors,  and  it  was  with  much  difficulty  her  troubled  spirit 
was  conjured  down  and  put  to  rest. 

From  the  rear  of  the  Hall  we  walked  out  into  the 
garden,  about  which  Byron  used  to  stroll  and  loiter  in 
company  with  Miss  Chaworth.  It  was  laid  out  in  the 
old  French  style.  There  was  a  long  terraced  walk, 
with  heavy  stone  balustrades  and  sculptured  urns,  over 
run  with  ivy  and  evergreens.  A  neglected  shrubbery 
bordered  one  side  of  the  terrace,  with  a  lofty  grove 
inhabited  by  a  venerable  community  of  rooks.  Great 
flights  of  steps  led  down  from  the  terrace  to  a  flower- 
garden,  laid  out  in  formal  plots.  The  rear  of  the  Hall, 
which  overlooked  the  garden,  had  the  weather-stains 
of  centuries;  and  its  stone-shafted  casements,  and  an 
ancient  sun-dial  against  its  walls,  carried  back  the  mind 
to  days  of  yore. 

The  retired  and  quiet  garden,  once  a  little  seques 
tered  world  of  love  and  romance,  was  now  all  matted 
and  wild,  yet  was  beautiful  even  in  its  decay.  Its  air 
of  neglect  and  desolation  was  in  unison  with  the  for 
tune  of  the  two  beings  who  had  once  walked  here  in 
the  freshness  of  youth,  and  life,  and  beauty.  The  gar 
den,  like  their  young  hearts,  had  gone  to  waste  and 
ruin. 

Returning  to  the  Hall,  we  now  visited  a  chamber 
built  over  the  porch,  or  grand  entrance;  it  was  in  a 
ruinous  condition,  the  ceiling  having  fallen  in,  and  the 
floor  given  way.  This,  however,  is  a  chamber  ren 
dered  interesting  by  poetical  associations.  It  is  sup 
posed  to  be  the  oratory  alluded  to  by  Lord  Byron  in 
his  "  Dream,"  wherein  he  pictures  his  departure  from 
Annesley  after  learning  that  Mary  Chaworth  was  en 
gaged  to  be  married. 


50  NEWSTEAD  ABBEY 

There  was  an  ancient  mansion,  and  before 

Its  walls  there  was  a  steed  caparison'd ; 

Within  an  antique  Oratory  stood 

The  Boy  of  whom  I  spake ;  —  he  was  alone, 

And  pale  and  pacing  to  and  fro  :  anon 

He  sate  him  down,  and  seized  a  pen,  and  traced 

Words  which  I  could  not  guess  of ;  then  he  lean'd 

His  bow'd  head  on  his  h'ands,  and  shook  as  't  were 

With  a  convulsion  —  then  arose  again, 

And  with  his  teeth  and  quivering  hands  did  tear 

What  he  had  written,  but  he  shed  no  tears. 

And  he  did  calm  himself,  and  fix  his  brow 

Into  a  kind  of  quiet;  as  he  paused, 

The  lady  of  his  love  reentered  there ; 

She  was  serene  and  smiling  then,  and  yet 

She  knew  she  was  by  him  beloved,  —  she  knew, 

For  quickly  comes  such  knowledge,  that  his  heart 

Was  darken'd  with  her  shadow,  and  she  saw 

That  he  was  wretched,  but  she  saw  not  all. 

He  rose,  and  with  a  cold  and  gentle  grasp 

He  took  her  hand ;  a  moment  o'er  his  face 

A  tablet  of  unutterable  thoughts 

Was  traced,  and  then  it  faded  as  it  came ; 

He  dropp'd  the  hand  he  held,  and  with  slow  steps 

Return'd,  but  not  as  bidding  her  adieu, 

For  they  did  part  with  mutual  smiles :  —  he  pass'd 

From  out  the  massy  gate  of  that  old  Hall, 

And  mounting  on  his  steed  he  went  his  way, 

And  ne'er  repass'd  that  hoary  threshold  more. 

In  one  of  his  journals,  Lord  Byron  describes  his 
feelings  after  thus  leaving  the  oratory.  Arriving  on 
the  summit  of  a  hill,  which  commanded  the  last  view 
of  Annesley,  he  checked  his  horse,  and  gazed  back  with 
mingled  pain  and  fondness  upon  the  groves  which  em 
bowered  the  Hall,  and  thought  upon  the  lovely  being 
that  dwelt  there,  until  his  feelings  were  quite  dissolved 
in  tenderness.  The  conviction  at  length  recurred  that 
she  never  could  be  his,  when,  rousing  himself  from  his 
reverie,  he  struck  his  spurs  into  his  steed  and  dashed 
forward,  as  if  by  rapid  motion  to  leave  reflection 
behind  him. 

Yet,  notwithstanding  what  he  asserts  in  the  verses 
last  quoted,  he  did  pass  the  "  hoary  threshold "  of 
Annesley  again.  It  was,  however,  after  the  lapse  of 


NEWSTEAD  ABBEY  51 

several  years,  during  which  he  had  grown  up  to  man 
hood,  had  passed  through  the  ordeal  of  pleasures  and 
tumultuous  passions,  and  had  felt  the  influence  of 
other  charms.  Miss  Chaworth,  too,  had  become  a  wife 
and  a  mother,  and  he  dined  at  Annesley  Hall  at  the  in 
vitation  of  her  husband.  He  thus  met  the  object  of 
his  early  idolatry  in  the  very  scene  of  his  tender  devo 
tions,  which,  as  he  says,  her  smiles  had  once  made  a 
heaven  to  him.  The  scene  was  but  little  changed.  He 
was  in  the  very  chamber  where  he  had  so  often  listened 
entranced  to  the  witchery  of  her  voice ;  there  were  the 
same  instruments  and  music;  there  lay  her  flower- 
garden  beneath  the  window,  and  the  walks  through 
which  he  had  wandered  with  her  in  the  intoxication 
of  youthful  love.  Can  we  wonder  that  amidst  the 
tender  recollections  which  every  object  around  him 
was  calculated  to  awaken,  the  fond  passion  of  his  boy 
hood  should  rush  back  in  full  current  to  his  heart? 
He  was  himself  surprised  at  this  sudden  revulsion  of 
his  feelings,  but  he  had  acquired  self-possession  and 
could  command  them.  His  firmness,  however,  was 
doomed  to  undergo  a  further  trial.  While  seated  by 
the  object  of  his  secret  devotions,  with  all  these  recol 
lections  throbbing  in  his  bosom  her  infant  daughter 
was  brought  into  the  room.  At  sight  of  the  child  he 
started;  it  dispelled  the  last  lingerings  of  his  dream, 
and  he  afterwards  confessed,  that  to  repress  his  emo 
tion  at  the  moment,  was  the  severest  part  of  his  task. 

The  conflict  of  feelings  that  raged  within  his  bosom 
throughout  this  fond  and  tender,  yet  painful  and  em 
barrassing  visit,  are  touchingly  depicted  in  lines  which 
he  wrote  immediately  afterwards,  and  which,  though 
not  addressed  to  her  by  name,  are  evidently  intended 
for  the  eye  and  the  heart  of  the  fair  lady  of  Annesley : 

Well !  them  art  happy,  and  I  feel 

That  I  should  thus  be  happy  too ; 
For  still  my  heart  regards  thy  weal 

Warmly,  as  it  was  wont  to  do. 


52  NEWSTEAD  ABBEY 

Thy  husband  's  blest  —  and  't  will  impart 
Some  pangs  to  view  his  happier  lot : 

But  let  them  pass  —  Oh  !  how  my  heart 
Would  hate  him,  if  he  loved  thee  not! 

When  late  I  saw  thy  favorite  child 
I  thought  my  jealous  heart  would  break; 

But  when  the  unconscious  infant  smiled, 
I  kiss'd  it  for  its  mother's  sake. 

I  kiss'd  it,  and  repress'd  my  sighs 

Its  father  in  its  face  to  see ; 
But  then  it  had  its  mother's  eyes, 

And  they  were  all  to  love  and  me. 

Mary,  adieu !  I  must  away : 

While  thou  art  blest  I  '11  not  repine; 

But  near  thee  I  can  never  stay : 

My  heart  would  soon  again  be  thine. 

I  deem'd  that  time,  I  deem'd  that  pride 
Had  quench'd  at  length  my  boyish  flame; 

Nor  knew,  till  seated  by  thy  side, 
My  heart  in  all,  save  love,  the  same. 

Yet  I  was  calm :  I  knew  the  time 

My  breast  would  thrill  before  thy  look; 

But  now  to  tremble  were  a  crime  — 
We  met,  and  not  a  nerve  was  shook. 

I  saw  thee  gaze  upon  my  face, 

Yet  meet  with  no  confusion  there: 

One  only  feeling  couldst  thou  trace; 
The  sullen  calmness  of  despair. 

Away !  away !  my  early  dream 

Remembrance  never  must  awake : 
Oh!  where  is  Lethe's  fabled  stream? 

My  foolish  heart,  be  still,  or  break. 

The  revival  of  this  early  passion,  and  the  melan 
choly  associations  which  it  spread  over  those  scenes 
in  the  neighborhood  of  Newstead,  which  would  neces 
sarily  be  the  places  of  his  frequent  resort  while  in  Eng 
land,  are  alluded  to  by  him  as  a  principal  cause  of  his 
first  departure  for  the  Continent :  — 


NEWSTEAD  ABBEY  53 

When  man  expell'd  from  Eden's  bowers 

A  moment  lingered  near  the  gate, 
Each  scene  recalled  the  yanish'd  hours, 

And  bade  him  curse  his  future  fate. 

But  wandering  on  through  distant  climes, 
He  learnt  to  bear  his  load  of  grief; 

Just  gave  a  sigh  to  other  times, 
And  found  in  busier  scenes  relief. 

Thus,  Mary,  must  it  be  with  me, 

And  I  must  view  thy  charms  no  more; 

For,  while  I  linger  near  to  thee, 
I  sigh  for  all  I  knew  before. 

It  was  in  the  subsequent  June  that  he  set  off  on  his 
pilgrimage  by  sea  and  land,  which  was  to  become  the 
theme  of  his  immortal  poem.  That  the  image  of  Mary 
Cha  worth,  as  he  saw  and  loved  her  in  the  days  of  his 
boyhood,  followed  him  to  the  very  shore,  is  shown  in 
the  glowing  stanzas  addressed  to  her  on  the  eve  of 
embarkation :  — 

'T  is  done  —  and  shivering  in  the  gale 
The  bark  unfurls  her  snowy  sail ; 
And  whistling  o'er  the  bending  mast, 
Loud  sings  on  high  the  fresh'ning  blast; 
And  I  must  from  this  land  be  gone, 
Because  I  cannot  love  but  one. 

And  I  will  cross  the  whitening  foam, 
And  I  will  seek  a  foreign  home; 
Till  I  forget  a  false  fair  face, 
I  ne'er  shall  find  a  resting  place, 
My  own  dark  thoughts  I  cannot  shun, 
But  ever  love,  and  love  but  one. 

To  think  of  every  early  scene, 

Of  what  we  are,  and  what  we  've  been, 

Would  whelm  some  softer  hearts  with  woe  — 

But  mine,  alas !  has  stood  the  blow ; 

Yet  still  beats  on  as  it  begun, 

And  never  truly  loves  but  one. 

And  who  that  dear  loved  one  may  be 
Is  not  for  vulgar  eyes  to  see, 
And  why  that  early  love  was  cross'd, 
Thou  know'st  the  best,  I  feel  the  most ; 
But  few  that  dwell  beneath  the  sun 
Have  loved  so  long,  and  loved  but  one. 


54  NEWSTEAD  ABBEY 

I  Ve  tried  another's  fetters  too, 
With  charms,  perchance,  as  fair  to  view; 
And  I  would  fain  have  loved  as  well, 
But  some  unconquerable  spell 
Forbade  my  bleeding  breast  to  own 
A  kindred  care  for  aught  but  one. 

'T  would  soothe  to  take  one  lingering  view 
And  bless  thee  in  my  last  adieu ; 
Yet  wish  I  not  those  eyes  to  weep 
For  him  who  wanders  o'er  the  deep ; 
His  home,  his  hope,  his  youth  are  gone, 
Yet  still  he  loves  and  loves  but  one. 

The  painful  interview  at  Annesley  Hall  which  re 
vived  with  such  intenseness  his  early  passion,  remained 
stamped  upon  his  memory  with  singular  force,  and 
seems  to  have  survived  all  his  "  wandering  through 
distant  climes,"  to  which  he  trusted  as  an  oblivious 
antidote.  Upwards  of  two  years  after  that  event, 
when,  having  made  his  famous  pilgrimage,  he  was 
once  more  an  inmate  of  Newstead  Abbey,  his  vicinity 
to  Annesley  Hall  brought  the  whole  scene  vividly  be 
fore  him,  and  he  thus  recalls  it  in  a  poetic  epistle  to 
a  friend :  — 

I  've  seen  my  bride  another's  bride,  — 
Have  seen  her  seated  by  his  side,  — 
Have  seen  the  infant  which  she  bore, 
Wear  the  sweet  smile  the  mother  wore, 
When  she  and  I  in  youth  have  smiled 
As  fond  and  faultless  as  her  child  :  — 
Have  seen  her  eyes,  in  cold  disdain, 
Ask  if  I  felt  no  secret  pain. 

And  I  have  acted  well  my  part, 
And  made  my  cheek  belie  my  heart, 
Return'd  the  freezing  glance  she  gave, 
Yet  felt  the  while  that  woman's  slave ;  — 
Have  kiss'd,  as  if  without  design, 
The  babe  which  ought  to  have  been  mine, 
And  show'd,  alas !  in  each  caress, 
Time  had  not  made  me  love  the  less. 

"  It  was  about  the  time,"  says  Moore  in  his  Life  of 
Lord  Byron,  "  when  he  was  thus  bitterly  feeling  and 


NEWSTEAD  ABBEY  55 

expressing  the  blight  which  his  heart  had  suffered  from 
a  real  object  of  affection,  that  his  poems  on  an  imag 
inary  one,  '  Thyrza,'  were  written."  He  was  at  the 
same  time  grieving  over  the  loss  of  several  of  his 
earliest  and  dearest  friends,  the  companions  of  his 
joyous  schoolboy  hours.  To  recur  to  the  beautiful 
language  of  Moore,  who  writes  with  the  kindred  and 
kindling  sympathies  of  a  true  poet :  "  All  these  recol 
lections  of  the  young  and  the  dead  mingled  themselves 
in  his  mind  with  the  image  of  her  who,  though  living, 
was,  for  him,  as  much  lost  as  they,  and  diffused  that 
general  feeling  of  sadness  and  fondness  through  his 
soul,  which  found  a  vent  in  these  poems.  ...  It  was 
the  blending  of  the  two  affections  in  his  memory  and 
imagination,  that  gave  birth  to  an  ideal  object  com 
bining  the  best  features  of  both,  and  drew  from  him 
those  saddest  and  tenderest  of  love-poems,  in  which 
we  find  all  the  depth  and  intensity  of  real  feeling, 
touched  over  with  such  a  light  as  no  reality  ever  wore." 

An  early,  innocent,  and  unfortunate  passion,  how 
ever  fruitful  of  pain  it  may  be  to  the  man,  is  a  lasting 
advantage  to  the  poet.  It  is  a  well  of  sweet  and  bitter 
fancies ;  of  refined  and  gentle  sentiments ;  of  elevated 
and  ennobling  thoughts ;  shut  up  in  the  deep  recesses 
of  the  heart,  keeping  it  green  amidst  the  withering 
blights  of  the  world,  and,  by  its  casual  gushings  and 
overflowings,  recalling  at  times  all  the  freshness,  and 
innocence,  and  enthusiasm  of  youthful  days.  Lord 
Byron  was  conscious  of  this  effect,  and  purposely  cher 
ished  and  brooded  over  the  remembrance  of  his  early 
passion,  and  of  all  the  scenes  of  Annesley  Hall  con 
nected  with  it.  It  was  this  remembrance  that  attuned 
his  mind  to  some  of  its  most  elevated  and  virtuous 
strains,  and  shed  an  inexpressible  grace  and  pathos 
over  his  best  productions. 

Being  thus  put  upon  the  traces  of  this  little  love- 
story,  I  cannot  refrain  from  threading  them  out,  as 


56  NEWSTEAD  ABBEY 

they  appear  from  time  to  time  in  various  passages  of 
Lord  Byron's  works.  During  his  subsequent  rambles 
in  the  East,  when  time  and  distance  had  softened 
away  his  "  early  romance  "  almost  into  the  remem 
brance  of  a  pleasing  and  tender  dream,  he  received 
accounts  of  the  object  of  it,  which  represented  her, 
still  in  her  paternal  Hall,  among  her  native  bowers 
of  Annesley,  surrounded  by  a  blooming  and  beau 
tiful  family,  yet  a  prey  to  secret  and  withering 
melancholy :  — 

In  her  home, 

A  thousand  leagues  from  his,  —  her  native  home, 
She  dwelt,  begirt  with  growing  infancy, 
Daughters  and  sons  of  beauty,  but  —  behold! 
Upon  her  face  there  was  the  tint  of  grief, 
The  settled  shadow  of  an  inward  strife, 
And  an  unquiet  drooping  of  the  eye, 
As  if  its  lids  were  charged  with  unshed  tears. 

For  an  instant  the  buried  tenderness  of  early  youth, 
and  the  fluttering  hopes  which  accompanied  it,  seemed 
to  have  revived  in  his  bosom,  and  the  idea  to  have 
flashed  upon  his  mind  that  his  image  might  be  con 
nected  with  her  secret  woes;  but  he  rejected  the 
thought  almost  as  soon  as  formed. 

What  could  her  grief  be?  —  she  had  all  she  loved, 
And  he  who  had  so  loved  her  was  not  there 
To  trouble  with  bad  hopes,  or  evil  wish, 
Or  ill  repress'd  affection,  her  pure  thoughts. 
What  could  her  grief  be?  —  she  had  loved  him  not, 
Nor  given  him  cause  to  deem  himself  beloved, 
Nor  could  he  be  a  part  of  that  which  prey'd 
Upon  her  mind  —  a  spectre  of  the  past. 

The  cause  of  her  grief  was  a  matter  of  rural  com 
ment  in  the  neighborhood  of  Newstead  and  Annesley. 
It  was  disconnected  from  all  idea  of  Lord  Byron,  but 
attributed  to  the  harsh  and  capricious  conduct  of  one 
to  whose  kindness  and  affection  she  had  a  sacred  claim. 
The  domestic  sorrows,  which  had  long  preyed  in  secret 


NEWSTEAD  ABBEY  57 

on  her  heart,  at  length  affected  her  intellect,  and  the 
"bright  morning  star  of  Annesley"  was  eclipsed 
forever. 

The  lady  of  his  love,  —  oh!  she  was  changed 
As  by  the  sickness  of  the  soul;  her  mind 
Had  wandered  from  its  dwelling,  and  her  eyes, 
They  had  not  their  own  lustre,  but  the  look 
Which  is  not  of  the  earth;   she  was  become 
The  queen  of  a  fantastic  realm :  but  her  thoughts 
Were  combinations  of  disjointed  things; 
And  forms  impalpable  and  unperceived 
Of  others'  sight,  familiar  were  to  hers. 
And  this  the  world  calls  frenzy. 

Notwithstanding  lapse  of  time,  change  of  place,  and 
a  succession  of  splendid  and  spirit-stirring  scenes  in 
various  countries,  the  quiet  and  gentle  scene  of  his 
boyish  love  seems  to  have  held  a  magic  sway  over  the 
recollections  of  Lord  Byron,  and  the  image  of  Mary 
Cha worth  to  have  unexpectedly  obtruded  itself  upon 
his  mind  like  some  supernatural  visitation.  Such  was 
the  fact  on  the  occasion  of  his  marriage  with  Miss 
Milbanke;  Annesley  Hall  and  all  its  fond  associations 
floated  like  a  vision  before  his  thoughts,  even  when 
at  the  altar,  and  on  the  point  of  pronouncing  the  nup 
tial  vows.  The  circumstance  is  related  by  him  with 
a  force  and  feeling  that  persuade  us  of  its  truth. 

A  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream. 

The  wanderer  was  returned.  —  I  saw  him  stand 

Before  an  altar  —  with  a  gentle  bride; 

Her  face  was  fair,  but  was  not  that  which  made 

The  star-light  of  his  boyhood ;  —  as  he  stood 

Even  at  the  altar,  o'er  his  brow  there  came 

The  selfsame  aspect,  and  the  quivering  shock 

That  in  the  antique  oratory  shook 

His  bosom  in  its  solitude;  and  then  — 

As  in  that  hour  —  a  moment  o'er  his  face 

The  tablet  of  unutterable  thoughts 

Was  traced, —  and  then  it  faded  as  it  came, 

And  he  stood  calm  and  quiet,  and  he  spoke 

The  fitting  vows,  but  heard  not  his  own  words, 

And  all  things  reel'd  around  him  :  he  could  see 

Not  that  which  was,  nor  that  which  should  have  been  — 


58  NEWSTEAD  ABBEY 

But  the  old  mansion,  and  the  accustomed  hall, 
And  the  remember'd  chambers,  and  the  place, 
The  day,  the  hour,  the  sunshine,  and  the  shade, 
All  things  pertaining  to  that  place  and  hour, 
And  her  who  was  his  destiny,  came  back, 
And  thrust  themselves  between  him  and  the  light : 
What  business  had  they  there  at  such  a  time  ? 

The  history  of  Lord  Byron's  union  is  too  well  known 
to  need  narration.  The  errors,  and  humiliations,  and 
heart-burnings  that  followed  upon  it,  gave  additional 
effect  to  the  remembrance  of  his  early  passion,  and 
tormented  him  with  the  idea,  that,  had  he  been  suc 
cessful  in  his  suit  to  the  lovely  heiress  of  Annesley, 
they  might  both  have  shared  a  happier  destiny.  In 
one  of  his  manuscripts,  written  long  after  his  marriage, 
having  accidentally  mentioned  Miss  Chaworth  as  "  My 
M.  A.  C,  "  —  "  Alas ! "  exclaims  he,  with  a  sudden 
burst  of  feeling,  "  why  do  I  say  my?  Our  union  would 
have  healed  feuds  in  which  blood  had  been  shed  by  our 
fathers ;  it  would  have  joined  lands  broad  and  rich ;  it 
would  have  joined  at  least  one  heart,  and  two  persons 
not  ill-matched  in  years  —  and  —  and  —  and  —  what 
has  been  the  result  ?  " 

But  enough  of  Annesley  Hall  and  the  poetical  themes 
connected  with  it.  I  felt  as  if  I  could  linger  for  hours 
about  its  ruined  oratory,  and  silent  hall,  and  neglected 
garden,  and  spin  reveries  and  dream  dreams,  until  all 
became  an  ideal  world  around  me  The  day,  however, 
was  fast  declining,  and  the  shadows  of  evening  throw 
ing  deeper  shades  of  melancholy  about  the  place. 
Taking  our  leave  of  the  worthy  old  housekeeper,  there 
fore,  with  a  small  compensation  and  many  thanks  for 
her  civilities,  we  mounted  our  horses  and  pursued  our 
way  back  to  Newstead  Abbey. 


NEWSTEAD  ABBEY  59 


THE    LAKE 

Before  the  mansion  lay  a  lucid  lake, 

Broad  as  transparent,  deep,  and  freshly  fed 

By  a  river,  which  its  softened  way  did  take 
In  currents  through  the  calmer  water  spread 

Around :  the  wild  fowl  nestled  in  the  brake 
And  sedges,  brooding  in  their  liquid  bed : 

The  woods  sloped  downward  to  its  brink,  and  stood 

With  their  green  faces  fixed  upon  the  flood. 

SUCH  is  Lord  Byron's  description  of  one  of  a  series  of 
beautiful  sheets  of  water,  formed  in  old  times  by  the 
monks  by  damming  up  the  course  of  a  small  river. 
Here  he  used  daily  to  enjoy  his  favorite  recreations 
of  swimming  and  sailing.  The  "  wicked  old  Lord,"  in 
his  scheme  of  rural  devastation,  had  cut  down  all  the 
woods  that  once  fringed  the  lake;  Lord  Byron,  on 
coming  of  age,  endeavored  to  restore  them,  and  a 
beautiful  young  wood,  planted  by  him,  now  sweeps  up 
from  the  water's  edge,  and  clothes  the  hillside  opposite 
to  the  Abbey.  To  this  woody  nook  Colonel  Wildman 
has  given  the  appropriate  title  of  "  The  Poet's  Corner." 
The  lake  has  inherited  its  share  of  the  traditions 
and  fables  connected  with  everything  in  and  about  the 
Abbey.  It  was  a  petty  Mediterranean  sea  on  which 
the  "  wicked  old  Lord  "  used  to  gratify  his  nautical 
tastes  and  humors.  He  had  his  mimic  castles  and  for 
tresses  along  its  shores,  and  his  mimic  fleets  upon  its 
waters,  and  used  to  get  up  mimic  sea-fights.  The  re 
mains  of  his  petty  fortifications  still  awaken  the  curi 
ous  inquiries  of  visitors.  In  one  of  his  vagaries,  he 
caused  a  large  vessel  to  be  brought  on  wheels  from  the 
sea-coast  and  launched  in  the  lake.  The  country  people 
were  surprised  to  see  a  ship  thus  sailing  over  dry  land. 
They  called  to  mind  a  saying  of  Mother  Shipton,  the 
famous  prophet  of  the  vulgar,  that  whenever  a  ship 


60  NEWSTEAD  ABBEY 

freighted  with  ling  should  cross  Sherwood  Forest, 
Newstead  would  pass  out  of  the  Byron  family.  The 
country  people,  who  detested  the  old  Lord,  were 
anxious  to  verify  the  prophecy.  Ling,  in  the  dialect 
of  Nottingham,  is  the  name  for  heather;  with  this 
plant  they  heaped  the  fated  bark  as  it  passed,  so  that 
it  arrived  full  freighted  at  Newstead. 

The  most  important  stories  about  the  lake,  however, 
relate  to  the  treasures  that  are  supposed  to  lie  buried 
in  its  bosom.  These  may  have  taken  their  origin  in  a 
fact  which  actually  occurred.  There  was  one  time 
fished  up  from  the  deep  part  of  the  lake  a  great  eagle 
of  molten  brass,  with  expanded  wings,  standing  on  a 
pedestal  or  perch  of  the  same  metal.  It  had  doubtless 
served  as  a  stand  or  reading-desk,  in  the  Abbey  chapel, 
to  hold  a  folio  Bible  or  missal. 

The  sacred  relic  was  sent  to  a  brazier  to  be  cleaned. 
As  he  was  at  work  upon  it,  he  discovered  that  the 
pedestal  was  hollow  and  composed  of  several  pieces. 
Unscrewing  these,  he  drew  forth  a  number  of  parch 
ment  deeds  and  grants  appertaining  to  the  Abbey,  and 
bearing  the  seals  of  Edward  III.  and  Henry  VIIL, 
which  had  thus  been  concealed,  and  ultimately  sunk 
in  the  lake  by  the  friars,  to  substantiate  their  right  and 
title  to  these  domains  at  some  future  day. 

One  of  the  parchment  scrolls  thus  discovered  throws 
rather  an  awkward  light  upon  the  kind  of  life  led  by 
the  friars  of  Newstead.  It  is  an  indulgence  granted 
to  them  for  a  certain  number  of  months,  in  which 
plenary  pardon  is  assured  in  advance  for  all  kinds  of 
crimes,  among  which  several  of  the  most  gross  and 
sensual  are  specifically  mentioned,  and  the  weaknesses 
of  the  flesh  to  which  they  were  prone. 

After  inspecting  these  testimonials  of  monkish  life, 
in  the  regions  of  Sherwood  Forest,  we  cease  to  wonder 
at  the  virtuous  indignation  of  Robin  Hood  and  his  out 
law  crew,  at  the  sleek  sensualists  of  the  cloister :  — 


NEWSTEAD  ABBEY  61 

I  never  hurt  the  husbandman, 

That  use  to  till  the  ground, 
Nor  spill  their  blood  that  range  the  wood 

To  follow  hawk  and  hound. 

My  chiefest  spite  to  clergy  is, 

Who  in  these  days  bear  sway; 
With  friars  and  monks  with  their  fine  spunks, 

I  make  my  chiefest  prey. 

Old  Ballad  of  Robin  Hood 

The  brazen  eagle  has  been  transferred  to  the  paro 
chial  and  collegiate  church  of  Southall,  about  twenty 
miles  from  Newstead,  where  it  may  still  be  seen  in  the 
centre  of  the  chancel,  supporting,  as  of  yore,  a  pon 
derous  Bible.  As  to  the  documents  it  contained,  they 
are  carefully  treasured  up  by  Colonel  Wildman  among 
his  other  deeds  and  papers,  in  an  iron  chest  secured 
by  a  patent  lock  of  nine  bolts,  almost  equal  to  a  magic 
spell. 

The  fishing  up  of  this  brazen  relic,  as  I  have  al 
ready  hinted,  has  given  rise  to  the  tales  of  treasure 
lying  at  the  bottom  of  the  lake,  thrown  in  there  by 
the  monks  when  they  abandoned  the  Abbey.  The 
favorite  story  is,  that  there  is  a  great  iron  chest  there 
filled  with  gold  and  jewels,  and  chalices  and  crucifixes; 
nay,  that  it  has  been  seen,  when  the  water  of  the  lake 
was  unusually  low.  There  were  large  iron  rings  at 
each  end,  but  all  attempts  to  move  it  were  ineffectual; 
either  the  gold  it  contained  was  too  ponderous,  or, 
what  is  more  probable,  it  was  secured  by  one  of  those 
magic  spells  usually  laid  upon  hidden  treasure.  It  re 
mains,  therefore,  at  the  bottom  of  the  lake  to  this 
day,  and,  it  is  to  be  hoped,  may  one  day  or  other  be 
discovered  by  the  present  worthy  proprietor. 


62  NEWSTEAD  ABBEY 


ROBIN   HOOD   AND   SHERWOOD 
FOREST 

WHILE  at  Newstead  Abbey  I  took  great  delight  in 
riding  and  rambling  about  the  neighborhood,  studying 
out  the  traces  of  merry  Sherwood  Forest,  and  visiting 
the  haunts  of  Robin  Hood.  The  relics  of  the  old  forest 
are  few  and  scattered,  but  as  to  the  bold  outlaw  who 
once  held  a  kind  of  freebooting  sway  over  it,  there  is 
scarce  a  hill  or  dale,  a  cliff  or  cavern,  a  well  or  foun 
tain,  in  this  part  of  the  country,  that  is.  not  connected 
with  his  memory.  The  very  names  of  some  of  the 
tenants  on  the  Newstead  estate,  such  as  Beardall  and 
Hardstaff,  sound  as  if  they  may  have  been  borne  in 
old  times  by  some  of  the  stalwart  fellows  of  the  out 
law  gang. 

One  of  the  earliest  books  that  captivated  my  fancy 
when  a  child,  was  a  collection  of  Robin  Hood  ballads, 
"  adorned  with  cuts,"  which  I  bought  of  an  old  Scotch 
pedler,  at  the  cost  of  all  my  holiday  money.  How  I 
devoured  its  pages,  and  gazed  upon  its  uncouth  wood 
cuts!  For  a  time  my  mind  was  filled  with  picturings 
of  "  merry  Sherwood,"  and  the  exploits  and  revelling 
of  the  bold  foresters;  and  Robin  Hood,  Little  John, 
Friar  Tuck,  and  their  doughty  compeers,  were  my 
heroes  of  romance. 

These  early  feelings  were  in  some  degree  revived 
when  I  found  myself  in  the  very  heart  of  the  far- 
famed  forest,  and,  as  I  said  before,  I  took  a  kind  of 
schoolboy  delight  in  hunting  up  all  traces  of  old  Sher 
wood  and  its  sylvan  chivalry.  One  of  the  first  of  my 
antiquarian  rambles  was  on  horseback,  in  company 
with  Colonel  Wildman  and  his  lady,  who  undertook  to 


NEWSTEAD  ABBEY  63 

guide  me  to  some  of  the  mouldering  monuments  of  the 
forest.  One  of  these  stands  in  front  of  the  very  gate 
of  Newstead  Park,  and  is  known  throughout  the  coun 
try  by  the  name  of  "  The  Pilgrim  Oak."  It  is  a  vener 
able  tree,  of  great  size,  overshadowing  a  wide  area  of 
the  road.  Under  its  shade  the  rustics  of  the  neighbor 
hood  have  been  accustomed  to  assemble  on  certain  holi 
days,  and  celebrate  their  rural  festivals.  This  custom 
had  been  handed  down  from  father  to  son  for  several 
generations,  until  the  oak  had  acquired  a  kind  of  sacred 
character. 

The  "  old  Lord  Byron,"  however,  in  whose  eyes 
nothing  was  sacred,  when  he  laid  his  desolating  hand 
on  the  groves  and  forests  of  Newstead,  doomed  like 
wise  this  traditional  tree  to  the  axe.  Fortunately  the 
good  people  of  Nottingham  heard  of  the  danger  of 
their  favorite  oak,  and  hastened  to  ransom  it  from 
destruction.  They  afterwards  made  a  present  of  it 
to  the  poet,  when  he  came  to  the  estate,  and  the  Pil 
grim  Oak  is  likely  to  continue  a  rural  gathering  place 
for  many  coming  generations. 

From  this  magnificent  and  time-honored  tree  we 
continued  on  our  sylvan  research,  in  quest  of  another 
oak,  of  more  ancient  date  and  less  flourishing  condi 
tion.  A  ride  of  two  or  three  miles,  the  latter  part 
across  open  wastes,  once  clothed  with  forest,  now  bare 
and  cheerless,  brought  us  to  the  tree  in  question.  It 
was  the  Oak  of  Ravenshead,  one  of  the  last  survivors 
of  old  Sherwood,  and  which  had  evidently  once  held 
a  high  head  in  the  forest;  it  was  now  a  mere  wreck, 
crazed  by  time,  and  blasted  by  lightning,  and  standing 
alone  on  a  naked  waste,  like  a  ruined  column  in  a 
desert. 

The  scenes  are  desert  now,  and  bare, 

Where  flourished  once  a  forest  fair, 

When  these  waste  glens  with  copse  were  lined, 

And  peopled  with  the  hart  and  hind. 

Yon  lonely  oak,  would  he  could  tell 


64  NEWSTEAD  ABBEY 

The  changes  of  his  parent  dell, 
Since  he,  so  gray  and  stubborn  now, 
Waved  in  each  breeze  a  sapling  bough. 
Would  he  could  tell  how  deep  the  shade 
A  thousand  mingled  branches  made. 
Here  in  my  shade,  methinks  he  'd  say, 
The  mighty  stag  at  noontide  lay, 
While  doe,  and  roe,  and  red-deer  good, 
Have  bounded  by  through  gay  green-wood. 

At  no  great  distance  from  Ravenshead  Oak  is  a 
small  cave  which  goes  by  the  name  of  Robin  Hood's 
Stable.  It  is  in  the  breast  of  a  hill,  scooped  out  of 
brown  freestone,  with  rude  attempts  at  columns  and 
arches.  Within  are  two  niches,  which  served,  it  is  said, 
as  stalls  for  the  bold  outlaw's  horses.  To  this  retreat 
he  retired  when  hotly  pursued  by  the  law,  for  the  place 
was  a  secret  even  from  his  band.  The  cave  is  over 
shadowed  by  an  oak  and  alder,  and  is  hardly  discover 
able  even  at  the  present  day;  but  when  the  country 
was  overrun  with  forest,  it  must  have  been  completely 
concealed. 

There  was  an  agreeable  wildness  and  loneliness  in 
a  great  part  of  our  ride.  Our  devious  road  wound 
down,  at  one  time,  among  rocky  dells  by  wandering 
streams,  and  lonely  pools,  haunted  by  shy  water-fowl. 
We  passed  through  a  skirt  of  woodland,  of  more 
modern  planting,  but  considered  a  legitimate  offspring 
of  the  ancient  forest,  and  commonly  called  Jock  of 
Sherwood.  In  riding  through  these  quiet,  solitary 
scenes,  the  partridge  and  pheasant  would  now  and  then 
burst  upon  the  wing,  and  the  hare  scud  away  before  us. 

Another  of  these  rambling  rides  in  quest  of  popular 
antiquities  was  to  a  chain  of  rocky  cliffs,  called  the 
Kirkby  Crags,  which  skirt  the  Robin  Hood  hills.  Here, 
leaving  my  horse  at  the  foot  of  the  crags,  I  scaled 
their  rugged  sides,  and  seated  myself  in  a  niche  of  the 
rocks,  called  Robin  Hood's  chair.  It  commands  a  wide 
prospect  over  the  valley  of  Newstead,  and  here  the 


NEWSTEAD  ABBEY  65 

bold  outlaw  is  said  to  have  taken  his  seat,  and  kept  a 
look-out  upon  the  roads  below,  watching  for  mer 
chants,  and  bishops,  and  other  wealthy  travellers,  upon 
whom  to  pounce  down,  like  an  eagle  from  his  eyrie. 

Descending  from  the  cliffs  and  remounting  my 
horse,  a  ride  of  a  mile  or  two  further  along  a  narrow 
"  robber  path,"  as  it  was  called,  which  wound  up  into 
the  hills  between  perpendicular  rocks,  led  to  an  arti 
ficial  cavern  cut  in  the  face  of  a  cliff,  with  a  door  and 
window  wrought  through  the  living  stone.  This  bears 
the  name  of  Friar  Tuck's  cell,  or  hermitage,  where, 
according  to  tradition,  that  jovial  anchorite  used  to 
make  good  cheer  and  boisterous  revel  with  his  free- 
booting  comrades. 

Such  were  some  of  the  vestiges  of  old  Sherwood 
and  its  renowned  "  yeomandrie,"  which  I  visited  in 
the  neighborhood  of  Newstead.  The  worthy  clergy 
man  who  officiated  as  chaplain  at  the  Abbey,  seeing 
my  zeal  in  the  cause,  informed  me  of  a  considerable 
tract  of  the  ancient  forest,  still  in  existence  about  ten 
miles  distant.  There  were  many  fine  old  oaks  in  it, 
he  said,  that  had  stood  for  centuries,  but  were  now 
shattered  and  "  stag-headed,"  that  is  to  say,  their  upper 
branches  were  bare,  and  blasted,  and  straggling  out 
like  the  antlers  of  a  deer.  Their  trunks,  too,  were 
hollow,  and  full  of  crows  and  jackdaws,  who  made 
them  their  nestling-places.  He  occasionally  rode  over 
to  the  forest  in  the  long  summer  evenings,  and  pleased 
himself  with  loitering  in  the  twilight  about  the  green 
alleys  and  under  the  venerable  trees. 

The  description  given  by  the  chaplain  made  me 
anxious  to  visit  this  remnant  of  old  Sherwood,  and  he 
kindly  offered  to  be  my  guide  and  companion.  We 
accordingly  sallied  forth  one  morning,  on  horseback, 
on  this  sylvan  expedition.  Our  ride  took  us  through  a 
part  of  the  country  where  King  John  had  once  held 
a  hunting-seat,  the  ruins  of  which  are  still  to  be  seen. 


66  NEWSTEAD  ABBEY 

At  that  time  the  whole  neighborhood  was  an  open 
royal  forest,  or  Frank  chase,  as  it  was  termed ;  for 
King  John  was  an  enemy  to  parks  and  warrens,  and 
other  enclosures,  by  which  game  was  fenced  in  for  the 
private  benefit  and  recreation  of  the  nobles  and  the 
clergy. 

Here,  on  the  brow  of  a  gentle  hill,  commanding  an 
extensive  prospect  of  what  had  once  been  forest,  stood 
another  of  those  monumental  trees,  which,  to  my  mind, 
gave  a  peculiar  interest  to  this  neighborhood.  It  was 
the  Parliament  Oak,  so  called  in  memory  of  an  assem 
blage  of  the  kind  held  by  King  John  beneath  its  shade. 
The  lapse  of  upwards  of  six  centuries  had  reduced  this 
once  mighty  tree  to  a  mere  crumbling  fragment,  yet, 
like  a  gigantic  torso  in  ancient  statuary,  the  grandeur 
of  the  mutilated  trunk  gave  evidence  of  what  it  had 
been  in  the  days  of  its  glory.  In  contemplating  its 
mouldering  remains,  the  fancy  busied  itself  in  calling 
up  the  scene  that  must  have  been  presented  beneath 
its  shade,  when  this  sunny  hill  swarmed  with  the  pag 
eantry  of  a  warlike  and  hunting  court;  when  silken 
pavilions  and  warrior-tents  decked  its  crest,  and  royal 
standards,  and  baronial  banners,  and  knightly  pennons 
rolled  out  to  the  breeze;  when  prelates  and  courtiers, 
and  steel-clad  chivalry  thronged  round  the  person  of 
the  monarch,  while  at  a  distance  loitered  the  foresters 
in  green,  and  all  the  rural  and  hunting  train  that  waited 
upon  his  sylvan  sports. 

A  thousand  vassals  mustered  round 

With  horse,  and  hawk,  and  horn,  and  hound, 

And  through  the  brake  the  rangers  stalk, 

And  falc'ners  hold  the  ready  hawk; 

And  foresters  in  green-wood  trim 

Lead  in  the  leash  the  greyhound  grim. 

Such  was  the  phantasmagoria  that  presented  itself 
for  a  moment  to  my  imagination,  peopling  the  silent 
place  before  me  with  empty  shadows  of  the  past.  The 


NEWSTEAD  ABBEY  67 

reverie,  however,  was  transient;  king,  courtier,  and 
steel-clad  warrior,  and  forester  in  green,  with  horn, 
and  hawk,  and  hound,  all  faded  again  into  oblivion, 
and  I  awoke  to  all  that  remained  of  this  once  stirring 
scene  of  human  pomp  and  power  —  a  mouldering  oak, 
and  a  tradition. 

We  are  such  stuff  as  dreams  are  made  of ! 

A  ride  of  a  few  miles  further  brought  us  at  length 
among  the  venerable  and  classic  shades  of  Sherwood. 
Here  I  was  delighted  to  find  myself  in  a  genuine  wild 
wood,  of  primitive  and  natural  growth,  so  rarely  to 
be  met  with  in  this  thickly  peopled  and  highly  culti 
vated  country.  It  reminded  me  of  the  aboriginal 
forests  of  my  native  land.  I  rode  through  natural 
alleys  and  greenwood  groves,  carpeted  with  grass  and 
shaded  by  lofty  and  beautiful  birches.  What  most 
interested  me,  however,  was  to  behold  around  me  the 
mighty  trunks  of  veteran  oaks,  old  monumental  trees, 
the  patriarchs  of  Sherwood  Forest.  They  were  shat 
tered,  hollow,  and  moss-grown,  it  is  true,  and  their 
"  leafy  honors  "  were  nearly  departed ;  but  like  moul 
dering  towers  they  were  noble  and  picturesque  in  their 
decay,  and  gave  evidence,  even  in  their  ruins,  of  their 
ancient  grandeur. 

As  I  gazed  about  me  upon  these  vestiges  of  once 
"  Merrie  Sherwood,"  the  picturings  of  my  boyish 
fancy  began  to  rise  in  my  mind,  and  Robin  Hood  and 
his  men  to  stand  before  me. 

He  clothed  himself  in  scarlet  then, 

His  men  were  all  in  green ; 
A  finer  show  throughout  the  world 

In  no  place  could  be  seen. 

Good  lord !  it  was  a  gallant  sight 

To  see  them  all  in  a  row ; 
With  every  man  a  good  broad-sword. 

And  eke  a  good  yew  bow. 


68  NEWSTEAD  ABBEY 

The  horn  of  Robin  Hood  again  seemed  to  resound 
through  the  forest.  I  saw  this  sylvan  chivalry,  half 
huntsmen,  half  freebooters,  trooping  across  the  distant 
glades,  or  feasting  and  revelling  beneath  the  trees;  I 
was  going  on  to  embody  in  this  way  all  the  ballad 
scenes  that  had  delighted  me  when  a  boy,  when  the 
distant  sound  of  a  wood-cutter's  axe  roused  me  from 
my  day-dream. 

The  boding  apprehensions  which  it  awakened  were 
too  soon  verified.  I  had  not  ridden  much  further, 
when  I  came  to  an  open  space  where  the  work  of  de 
struction  was  going  on.  Around  me  lay  the  prostrate 
trunks  of  venerable  oaks,  once  the  towering  and  mag 
nificent  lords  of  the  forest,  and  a  number  of  wood 
cutters  were  hacking  and  hewing  at  another  gigantic 
tree,  just  tottering  to  its  fall. 

Alas!  for  old  Sherwood  Forest:  it  had  fallen  into 
the  possession  of  a  noble  agriculturist ;  a  modern  utili 
tarian,  who  had  no  feeling  for  poetry  or  forest  scenery. 
In  a  little  while  and  this  glorious  woodland  will  be  laid 
low;  its  green  glades  be  turned  into  sheep-walks;  its 
legendary  bowers  supplanted  by  turnip-fields,  and  "  Mer- 
rie  Sherwood  "  will  exist  but  in  ballad  and  tradition. 

"  O  for  the  poetical  superstitions,"  thought  I,  "  of 
the  olden  time !  that  shed  a  sanctity  over  every  grove ; 
that  gave  to  each  tree  its  tutelar  genius  or  nymph,  and 
threatened  disaster  to  all  who  should  molest  the  hama 
dryads  in  their  leafy  abodes.  Alas!  for  the  sordid 
propensities  of  modern  days,  when  everything  is  coined 
into  gold,  and  this  once  holiday  planet  of  ours  is  turned 
into  a  mere  '  working-day  world.' ' 

My  cobweb  fancies  put  to  flight,  and  my  feelings 
out  of  tune,  I  left  the  forest  in  a  far  different  mood 
from  that  in  which  I  had  entered  it,  and  rode  silently 
along  until,  on  reaching  the  summit  of  a  gentle  emi 
nence,  the  chime  of  evening  bells  came  on  the  breeze 
across  the  heath  from  a  distant  village. 


NEWSTEAD  ABBEY  69 

I  paused  to  listen. 

"  They  are  merely  the  evening  bells  of  Mansfield," 
said  my  companion. 

"Of  Mansfield!"  Here  was  another  of  the  leg 
endary  names  of  this  storied  neighborhood,  that  called 
up  early  and  pleasant  associations.  The  famous  old 
ballad  of  the  King  and  the  Miller  of  Mansfield  came 
at  once  to  mind,  and  the  chime  of  the  bells  put  me 
again  in  good  humor. 

A  little  further  on,  and  we  were  again  on  the  traces 
of  Robin  Hood.  Here  was  Fountain  Dale,  where  he 
had  his  encounter  with  that  stalwart  shaveling  Friar 
Tuck,  who  was  a  kind  of  saint  militant,  alternately 
wearing  the  casque  and  the  cowl :  — 

The  curtal  fryar  kept  Fountain  dale 

Seven  long  years  and  more, 
There  was  neither  lord,  knight  or  earl 

Could  make  him  yield  before. 

The  moat  is  still  shown  which  is  said  to  have  sur 
rounded  the  strong-hold  of  this  jovial  ^nd  fighting 
friar;  and  the  place  where  he  and  Robin  Hood  had 
their  sturdy  trial  of  strength  and  prowess,  in  the  mem 
orable  conflict  which  lasted 

From  ten  o'clock  that  very  day 
Until  four  in  the  afternoon, 

and  ended  in  the  treaty  of  fellowship.  As  to  the  hardy 
feats,  both  of  sword  and  trencher,  performed  by  this 
"  curtal  fryar,"  behold  are  they  not  recorded  at  length 
in  the  ancient  ballads,  and  in  the  magic  pages  of 
"Ivanhoe"? 

The  evening  was  fast  coming  on,  and  the  twilight 
thickening,  as  we  rode  through  these  haunts  famous 
in  outlaw  story.  A  melancholy  seemed  to  gather  over 
the  landscape  as  we  proceeded,  for  our  course  lay 
by  shadowy  woods,  and  across  naked  heaths,  and 


70  NEWSTEAD  ABBEY 

along  lonely  roads,  marked  by  some  of  those  sinister 
names  by  which  the  country  people  in  England  are  apt 
to  make  dreary  places  still  more  dreary.  The  horrors 
of  "  Thieves'  Wood,"  and  the  "  Murderers'  Stone," 
and  the  "  Hag  Nook,"  had  all  to  be  encountered  in 
the  gathering  gloom  of  evening,  and  threatened  to 
beset  our  path  with  more  than  mortal  peril.  Hap 
pily,  however,  we  passed  these  ominous  places  un 
harmed,  and  arrived  in  safety  at  the  portal  of  New- 
stead  Abbey,  highly  satisfied  with  our  greenwood 
foray. 


THE  ROOK  CELL 

IN  the  course  of  my  sojourn  at  the  Abbey  I  changed 
my  quarters  from  the  magnificent  old  state  apartment 
haunted  by  Sir  John  Byron  the  Little,  to  another  in 
a  remote  corner  of  the  ancient  edifice,  immediately 
adjoining  the  ruined  chapel.  It  possessed  still  more 
interest  in  my  eyes,  from  having  been  the  sleeping 
apartment  of  Lord  Byron  during  his  residence  at  the 
Abbey.  The  furniture  remained  the  same.  Here  was 
the  bed  in  which  he  slept,  and  which  he  had  brought 
with  him  from  college;  its  gilded  posts,  surmounted 
by  coronets,  giving  evidence  of  his  aristocratical  feel 
ings.  Here  was  likewise  his  college  sofa:  and  about 
the  walls  were  the  portraits  of  his  favorite  butler,  old 
Joe  Murray,  of  his  fancy  acquaintance,  Jackson  the 
pugilist,  together  with  pictures  of  Harrow  School  and 
the  College  at  Cambridge,  at  which  he  was  educated. 

The  bedchamber  goes  by  the  name  of  the  Rook  Cell, 
from  its  vicinity  to  the  Rookery,  which,  since  time  im 
memorial,  has  maintained  possession  of  a  solemn  grove 
adjacent  to  the  chapel.  This  venerable  community 
afforded  me  much  food  for  speculation  during  my  resi 
dence  in  this  apartment.  In  the  morning  I  used  to  hear 


NEWSTEAD  ABBEY  71 

them  gradually  waking  and  seeming  to  call  each  othe~ 
up.  After  a  time,  the  whole  fraternity  would  be  in 
a  flutter;  some  balancing  and  swinging  on  the  tree- 
tops,  others  perched  on  the  pinnacle  of  the  Abbey 
church,  or  wheeling  and  hovering  about  in  the  air, 
and  the  ruined  walls  would  reverberate  with  their  in 
cessant  cawings.  In  this  way  they  would  linger  about 
the  rookery  and  its  vicinity  for  the  early  part  of  the 
morning,  when,  having  apparently  mustered  all  their 
forces,  called  over  the  roll,  and  determined  upon  their 
line  of  march,  they  one  and  all  would  sail  off  in  a  long 
straggling  flight  to  maraud  the  distant  fields.  They 
would  forage  the  country  for  miles,  and  remain  ab 
sent  all  day,  excepting  now  and  then  a  scout  would 
come  home,  as  if  to  see  that  all  was  well.  Towards 
night  the  whole  host  might  be  seen,  like  a  dark  cloud 
in  the  distance,  winging  their  way  homeward.  They 
came,  as  it  were,  with  whoop  and  halloo,  wheeling  high 
in  the  air  above  the  Abbey,  making  various  evolu 
tions  before  they  alighted,  and  then  keeping  up  an  in 
cessant  cawing  in  the  tree-tops,  until  they  gradually 
fell  asleep. 

It  is  remarked  at  the  Abbey,  that  the  rooks,  though 
they  sally  forth  on  forays  throughout  the  week,  yet 
keep  about  the  venerable  edifice  on  Sundays,  as  if 
they  had  inherited  a  reverence  for  the  day,  from  their 
ancient  confreres,  the  monks.  Indeed,  a  believer  in 
the  metempsychosis  might  easily  imagine  these  Gothic- 
looking  birds  to  be  the  embodied  souls  of  the  ancient 
friars  still  hovering  about  their  sanctified  abode. 

I  dislike  to  disturb  any  point  of  popular  and  poetic 
faith,  and  was  loath,  therefore,  to  question  the  authen 
ticity  of  this  mysterious  reverence  for  the  Sabbath, 
on  the  part  of  the  Newstead  rooks;  but  certainly  in 
the  course  of  my  sojourn  in  the  Rook  Cell  I  detected 
them  in  a  flagrant  outbreak  and  foray  on  a  bright 
Sunday  morning. 


72  NEWSTEAD  ABBEY 

Beside  the  occasional  clamor  of  the  rookery,  this 
remote  apartment  was  often  greeted  with  sounds  of 
a  different  kind,  from  the  neighboring  ruins.  The 
great  lancet  window  in  front  of  the  chapel  adjoins 
the  very  wall  of  the  chamber;  and  the  mysterious 
sounds  from  it  at  night  have  been  well  described  by 
Lord  Byron: 

Now  loud,  now  frantic, 

The  gale  sweeps  through  its  fretwork,  and  oft  sings 
The  owl  his  anthem,  when  the  silent  quire 
Lie  with  their  hallelujahs  quenched  like  fire. 

But  on  the  noontide  of  the  moon,  and  when 
The  wind  is  winged  from  one  point  of  heaven, 

There  moans  a  strange  unearthly  sound,  which  then 
Is  musical  —  a  dying  accent  driven 

Through  the  huge  arch,  which  soars  and  sinks  again. 
Some  deem  it  but  the  distant  echo  given 

Back  to  the  night-wind  by  the  waterfall, 

And  harmonized  by  the  old  choral  wall 

Others/that  some  original  shape  or  form, 
Shaped  by  decay  perchance,  hath  given  the  power 

To  this  gray  ruin,  with  a  voice  to  charm. 
Sad,  but  serene,  it  sweeps  o'er  tree  or  tower ; 

The  cause  I  know  not,  nor  can  solve ;  but  such 

The  fact :  —  I  've  heard  it,  —  once  perhaps  too  much. 

Never  was  a  traveller  in  quest  of  the  romantic  in 
greater  luck.  I  had,  in  sooth,  got  lodged  in  another 
haunted  apartment  of  the  Abbey;  for  in  this  chamber 
Lord  Byron  declared  he  had  more  than  once  been  har 
assed  at  midnight  by  a  mysterious  visitor.  A  black 
shapeless  form  would  sit  cowering  upon  his  bed,  and 
after  gazing  at  him  for  a  time  with  glaring  eyes,  would 
roll  off  and  disappear.  The  same  uncouth  apparition 
is  said  to  have  disturbed  the  slumbers  of  a  newly  mar 
ried  couple  that  once  passed  their  honey-moon  in  this 
apartment. 

I  would  observe  that  the  access  to  the  Rook  Cell  is 
by  a  spiral  stone  staircase  leading  up  into  it  as  into  a 
turret,  from  the  long  shadowy  corridor  over  the 


NEWSTEAD  ABBEY  73 

cloisters,  one  of  the  midnight  walks  of  the  goblin  friar. 
Indeed,  to  the  fancies  engendered  in  his  brain  in  this 
remote  and  lonely  apartment,  incorporated  with  the 
floating  superstitions  of  the  Abbey,  we  are  no  doubt 
indebted  for  the  spectral  scene  in  "  Don  Juan." 

Then  as  the  night  was  clear,  though  cold,  he  threw 
His  chamber-door  wide  open  —  and  went  forth 

Into  a  gallery,  of  sombre  hue, 

Long  furnish'd  with  old  pictures  of  great  worth, 

Of  knights  and  dames,  heroic  and  chaste  too, 
As  doubtless  should  be  people  of  high  birth. 


No  sound  except  the  echo  of  his  sigh 
Or  step  ran  sadly  through  that  antique  house, 

When  suddenly  he  heard,  or  thought  so,  nigh, 
A  supernatural  agent  —  or  a  mouse, 

Whose  little  nibbling  rustle  will  embarrass 

Most  people,  as  it  plays  along  the  arras. 

It  was  no  mouse,  but  lo  !  a  monk,  arrayed 
In  cowl,  and  beads,  and  dusky  garb,  appeared 

Now  in  the  moonlight,  and  now  lapsed  in  shade ; 
With  steps  that  trod  as  heavy,  yet  unheard; 

His  garments  only  a  slight  murmur  made; 
He  moved  as  shadowy  as  the  sisters  weird, 

But  slowly ;  and  as  he  passed  Juan  by 

Glared,  without  pausing,  on  him  a  bright  eye. 

Juan  was  petrified ;  he  had  heard  a  hint 

Of  such  a  spirit  in  these  halls  of  old, 
But  thought,  like  most  men,  there  was  nothing  in  't 

Beyond  the  rumor  which  such  spots  unfold, 
Coin'd  from  surviving  superstition's  mint, 

Which  passes  ghosts  in  currency  like  gold, 
But  rarely  seen,  like  gold  compared  with  paper. 
And  did  he  see  this  ?  or  was  it  a  vapor  ? 

Once,  twice,  thrice  pass'd,  repass'd  —  the  thing  of  air, 
Or  earth  beneath,  or  heaven,  or  t'  other  place ; 

And  Juan  gazed  upon  it  with  a  stare, 

Yet  could  not  speak  or  move,  but,  on  its  base 

As  stands  a  statue,  stood :  he  felt  his  hair 
Twine  like  a  knot  of  snakes  around  his  face ; 

He  tax'd  his  tongue  for  words,  which  were  not  granted, 

To  ask  the  reverend  person  what  he  wanted. 


74  NEWSTEAD  ABBEY 

The  third  time,  after  a  still  longer  pause, 
The  shadow  pass'd  away  —  but  where?   the  hall 

Was  long,  and  thus  far  there  was  no  great  cause 
To  think  his  vanishing  unnatural : 

Doors  there  were  many,  through  which,  by  the  laws 
Of  physics,  bodies,  whether  short  or  tall, 

Might  come  or  go ;  but  Juan  could  not  state 

Through  which  the  spectre  seem'd  to  evaporate. 

He  stood,  —  how  long  he  knew  not,  but  it  seem'd 
An  age,  —  expectant,  powerless,  with  his  eyes 

Strain'd  on  the  spot  where  first  the  figure  gleam'd, 
Then  by  degrees  recall'd  his  energies, 

And  would  have  pass'd  the  whole  off  as  a  dream, 
But  could  not  wake ;  he  was,  he  did  surmise, 

Waking  already,  and  return'd  at  length 

Back  to  his  chamber,  shorn  of  half  his  strength. 

As  I  have  already  observed,  it  is  difficult  to  deter 
mine  whether  Lord  Byron  was  really  subject  to  the 
superstitious  fancies  which  have  been  imputed  to  him, 
or  whether  he  merely  amused  himself  by  giving  cur 
rency  to  them  among  his  domestics  and  dependants. 
He  certainly  never  scrupled  to  express  a  belief  in  super 
natural  visitations,  both  verbally  and  in  his  correspond 
ence.  If  such  were  his  foible,  the  Rook  Cell  was  an 
admirable  place  to  engender  these  delusions.  As  I 
have  lain  awake  at  night,  I  have  heard  all  kinds  of 
mysterious  and  sighing  sounds  from  the  neighboring 
ruin.  Distant  footsteps,  too,  and  the  closing  of  doors 
in  remote  parts  of  the  Abbey,  would  send  hollow  re 
verberations  and  echoes  along  the  corridor  and  up  the 
spiral  staircase.  Once,  in  fact,  I  was  roused  by  a 
strange  sound  at  the  very  door  of  my  chamber.  I 
threw  it  open,  and  a  form  "  black  and  shapeless  with 
glaring  eyes  "  stood  before  me.  It  proved,  however, 
neither  ghost  nor  goblin,  but  my  friend  Boatswain, 
the  great  Newfoundland  dog,  who  had  conceived  a 
companionable  liking  for  me,  and  occasionally  sought 
me  in  my  apartment.  To  the  hauntings  of  even  such 
a  visitant  as  honest  Boatswain  may  we  attribute  some 
of  the  marvellous  stories  about  the  Goblin  Friar. 


NEWSTEAD  ABBEY  75 


THE   LITTLE  WHITE  LADY 

IN  the  course  of  a  morning's  ride  with  Colonel  Wild- 
man,  about  the  Abbey  lands,  we  found  ourselves  in 
one  of  the  prettiest  little  wild  woods  imaginable.  The 
road  to  it  had  led  us  among  rocky  ravines  overhung 
with  thickets,  and  now  wound  through  birchen  dingles 
and  among  beautiful  groves  and  clumps  of  elms  and 
beeches.  A  limpid  rill  of  sparkling  water,  winding 
and  doubling  in  perplexed  mazes,  crossed  our  path 
repeatedly,  so  as  to  give  the  wood  the  appearance  of 
being  watered  by  numerous  rivulets.  The  solitary  and 
romantic  look  of  this  piece  of  woodland,  and  the  fre 
quent  recurrence  of  its  mazy  stream,  put  him  in  mind, 
Colonel  Wildman  said,  of  the  little  German  fairy  tale 
of  Undine,  in  which  is  recorded  the  adventures  of  a 
knight  who  had  married  a  water-nymph.  As  he  rode 
with  his  bride  through  her  native  woods,  every  stream 
claimed  her  as  a  relative;  one  was  a  brother,  another 
an  uncle,  another  a  cousin. 

We  rode  on,  amusing  ourselves  with  applying  this 
fanciful  tale  to  the  charming  scenery  around  us,  until 
we  came  to  a  lowly  gray-stone  farm-house,  of  ancient 
date,  situated  in  a  solitary  glen,  on  the  margin  of  the 
brook,  and  overshadowed  by  venerable  trees.  It  went 
by  the  name,  as  I  was  told,  of  the  Weir  Mill  farm 
house.  With  this  rustic  mansion  was  connected  a  little 
tale  of  real  life,  some  circumstances  of  which  were  re 
lated  to  me  on  the  spot,  and  others  I  collected  in  the 
course  of  my  sojourn  at  the  Abbey. 

Not  long  after  Colonel  Wildman  had  purchased  the 
estate  of  Newstead,  he  made  it  a  visit  for  the  purpose 
of  planning  repairs  and  alterations.  As  he  was  ram 
bling  one  evening,  about  dusk,  in  company  with  his 
architect,  through  this  little  piece  of  woodland,  he  was 


76  NEWSTEAD  ABBEY 

struck  with  its  peculiar  characteristics,  and  then,  for 
the  first  time,  compared  it  to  the  haunted  wood  of 
Undine.  While  he  was  making  the  remark,  a  small 
female  figure,  in  white,  flitted  by  without  speaking  a 
word,  or  indeed  appearing  to  notice  them.  Her  step 
was  scarcely  heard  as  she  passed,  and  her  form  was 
indistinct  in  the  twilight. 

"  What  a  figure  for  a  fairy  or  sprite !  "  exclaimed 
Colonel  Wildman.  "  How  much  a  poet  or  a  romance 
writer  would  make  of  such  an  apparition,  at  such  a 
time  and  in  such  a  place !  " 

He  began  to  congratulate  himself  upon  having  some 
elfin  inhabitant  for  his  haunted  wood,  when,  on  pro 
ceeding  a  few  paces,  he  found  a  white  frill  lying  in 
the  path,  which  had  evidently  fallen  from  the  figure 
that  had  just  passed. 

"  Well,"  said  he,  "  after  all,  this  is  neither  sprite 
nor  fairy,  but  a  being  of  flesh  and  blood  and  muslin." 

Continuing  on,  he  came  to  where  the  road  passed 
by  an  old  mill  in  front  of  the  Abbey.  The  people  of 
the  mill  were  at  the  door.  He  paused  and  inquired 
whether  any  visitor  had  been  at  the  Abbey,  but  was 
answered  in  the  negative. 

"  Has  nobody  passed  by  here?" 

"  No  one,  sir." 

"  That 's  strange !  Surely  I  met  a  female  in  white, 
who  must  have  passed  along  this  path." 

"  Oh,  sir,  you  mean  the  Little  White  Lady ;  —  oh, 
yes,  she  passed  by  here  not  long  since." 

"The  Little  White  Lady!  And  pray  who  is  the 
Little  White  Lady?" 

"  Why,  sir,  that  nobody  knows ;  she  lives  in  the 
Weir  Mill  farm-house,  down  in  the  skirts  of  the  wood. 
She  comes  to  the  Abbey  every  morning,  keeps  about 
it  all  day,  and  goes  away  at  night.  She  speaks  to  no 
body,  and  we  are  rather  shy  of  her,  for  we  don't  know 
what  to  make  of  her." 


NEWSTEAD  ABBEY  77 

Colonel  Wildman  now  concluded  that  it  was  some 
artist  or  amateur  employed  in  making  sketches  of  the 
Abbey,  and  thought  no  more  about  the  matter.  He 
went  to  London,  and  was  absent  for  some  time.  In 
the  interim,  his  sister,  who  was  newly  married,  came 
with  her  husband  to  pass  the  honey-moon  at  the  Abbey. 
The  Little  White  Lady  still  resided  in  the  Weir  Mill 
farm-house,  on  the  border  of  the  haunted  wood,  and 
continued  her  visits  daily  to  the  Abbey.  Her  dress 
was  always  the  same :  a  white  gown  with  a  little  black 
spencer  or  bodice,  and  a  white  hat  with  a  short  veil  that 
screened  the  upper  part  of  her  countenance.  Her 
habits  were  shy,  lonely,  and  silent;  she  spoke  to  no 
one,  and  sought  no  companionship,  excepting  with  the 
Newfoundland  dog,  that  had  belonged  to  Lord  Byron. 
His  friendship  she  secured  by  caressing  him  and  oc 
casionally  bringing  him  food,  and  he  became  the  com 
panion  of  her  solitary  walks.  She  avoided  all  strangers, 
and  wandered  about  the  retired  parts  of  the  garden; 
sometimes  sitting  for  hours  by  the  tree  on  which  Lord 
Byron  had  carved  his  name,  or  at  the  foot  of  the  monu 
ment  which  he  had  erected  among  the  ruins  of  the 
chapel.  Sometimes  she  read,  sometimes  she  wrote  with 
a  pencil  on  a  small  slate  which  she  carried  with  her, 
but  much  of  her  time  was  passed  in  a  kind  of  reverie. 

The  people  about  the  place  gradually  became  ac 
customed  to  her,  and  suffered  her  to  wander  about 
unmolested ;  their  distrust  of  her  subsided  on  discover 
ing  that  most  of  her  peculiar  and  lonely  habits  arose 
from  the  misfortune  of  being  deaf  and  dumb.  Still 
she  was  regarded  with  some  degree  of  shyness,  for  it 
was  the  common  opinion  that  she  was  not  exactly  in 
her  right  mind. 

Colonel  Wildman's  sister  was  informed  of  all  these 
circumstances  by  the  servants  of  the  Abbey,  among 
whom  the  Little  White  Lady  was  a  theme  of  frequent 
discussion.  The  Abbey  and  its  monastic  environs 


78  NEWSTEAD  ABBEY 

being  haunted  ground,  it  was  natural  that  a  mysterious 
visitant  of  the  kind,  and  one  supposed  to  be  under  the 
influence  of  mental  hallucination,  should  inspire  awe 
in  a  person  unaccustomed  to  the  place.  As  Colonel 
Wildman's  sister  was  one  day  walking  along  a  broad 
terrace  of  the  garden,  she  suddenly  beheld  the  Little 
White  Lady  coming  towards  her,  and,  in  the  surprise 
and  agitation  of  the  moment,  turned  and  ran  into  the 
house. 

Day  after  day  now  elapsed,  and  nothing  more  was 
seen  of  this  singular  personage.  Colonel  Wildman  at 
length  arrived  at  the  Abbey,  and  his  sister  mentioned 
to  him  her  rencounter  and  fright  in  the  garden.  It 
brought  to  mind  his  own  adventure  with  the  Little 
White  Lady  in  the  wood  of  Undine,  and  he  was  sur 
prised  to  find  that  she  still  continued  her  mysterious 
wanderings  about  the  Abbey.  The  mystery  was  soon 
explained.  Immediately  after  his  arrival  he  received 
a  letter  written  in  the  most  minute  and  delicate  female 
hand,  and  in  elegant  and  even  eloquent  language.  It 
was  from  the  Little  White  Lady.  She  had  noticed  and 
been  shocked  by  the  abrupt  retreat  of  Colonel  Wild 
man's  sister  on  seeing  her  in  the  garden-walk,  and 
expressed  her  unhappiness  at  being  an  object  of  alarm 
to  any  of  his  family.  She  explained  the  motives  of 
her  frequent  and  long  visits  to  the  Abbey,  which  proved 
to  be  a  singularly  enthusiastic  idolatry  of  the  genius 
of  Lord  Byron,  and  a  solitary  and  passionate  delight 
in  haunting  the  scenes  he  had  once  inhabited.  She 
hinted  at  the  infirmities  which  cut  her  off  from  all 
social  communion  with  her  fellow-beings,  and  at  her 
situation  in  life  as  desolate  and  bereaved;  and  con 
cluded  by  hoping  that  he  would  not  deprive  her  of  her 
only  comfort,  the  permission  of  visiting  the  Abbey  oc 
casionally,  and  lingering  about  the  walks  and  gardens. 

Colonel  Wildman  now  made  further  inquiries  con 
cerning  her,  and  found  that  she  was  a  great  favorite 


NEWSTEAD  ABBEY  79 

with  the  people  of  the  farm-house  where  she  boarded, 
from  the  gentleness,  quietude,  and  innocence  of  her 
manners.  When  at  home,  she  passed  the  greater  part 
of  her  time  in  a  small  sitting-room,  reading  and 
writing. 

Colonel  Wildman  immediately  called  on  her  at  the 
farm-house.  She  received  him  with  some  agitation 
and  embarrassment,  but  his  frankness  and  urbanity 
soon  put  her  at  her  ease.  She  was  past  the  bloom  of 
youth,  a  pale,  nervous  little  being,  and  apparently  de 
ficient  in  most  of  her  physical  organs,  for  in  addition 
to  being  deaf  and  dumb,  she  saw  but  imperfectly.  They 
carried  on  a  communication  by  means  of  a  small  slate, 
which  she  drew  out  of  her  reticule,  and  on  which  they 
wrote  their  questions  and  replies.  In  writing  or  read 
ing  she  always  approached  her  eyes  close  to  the  written 
characters. 

This  defective  organization  was  accompanied  by  a 
morbid  sensibility  almost  amounting  to  disease.  She 
had  not  been  born  deaf  and  dumb,  but  had  lost  her 
hearing  in  a  fit  of  sickness,  and  with  it  the  power  of 
distinct  articulation.  Her  life  had  evidently  been 
checkered  and  unhappy;  she  was  apparently  without 
family  or  friend,  a  lonely,  desolate  being,  cut  off  from 
society  by  her  infirmities. 

"  I  am  always  amongst  strangers,"  said  she,  "  as 
much  so  in  my  native  country  as  I  could  be  in  the  re 
motest  parts  of  the  world.  By  all  I  am  considered  as 
a  stranger  and  an  alien;  no  one  will  acknowledge 
any  connection  with  me.  I  seem  not  to  belong  to  the 
human  species." 

Such  were  the  circumstances  that  Colonel  Wildman 
was  able  to  draw  forth  in  the  course  of  his  conversa 
tion,  and  they  strongly  interested  him  in  favor  of  this 
poor  enthusiast.  He  was  too  devout  an  admirer  of 
Lord  Byron  himself  not  to  sympathize  in  this  extraor 
dinary  zeal  of  one  of  his  votaries,  and  he  entreated  her 


8o  NEWSTEAD  ABBEY 

to  renew  her  visits  to  the  Abbey,  assuring  her  that  the 
edifice  and  its  grounds  should  always  be  open  to  her. 

The  Little  White  Lady  now  resumed  her  daily  walks 
in  the  Monks'  Garden,  and  her  occasional  seat  at  the 
foot  of  the  monument;  she  was  shy  and  diffident, 
however,  and  evidently  fearful  of  intruding.  If  any 
persons  were  walking  in  the  garden,  she  would  avoid 
them,  and  seek  the  most  remote  parts;  and  was  seen 
like  a  sprite,  only  by  gleams  and  glimpses,  as  she  glided 
among  the  groves  and  thickets.  Many  of  her  feelings 
and  fancies,  during  these  lonely  rambles,  were  em 
bodied  in  verse,  noted  down  on  her  tablet,  and  trans 
ferred  to  paper  in  the  evening  on  her  return  to  the 
farm-house.  Some  of  these  verses  now  lie  before  me, 
written  with  considerable  harmony  of  versification, 
but  chiefly  curious  as  being  illustrative  of  that  singular 
and  enthusiastic  idolatry  with  which  she  almost  wor 
shipped  the  genius  of  Byron,  or  rather  the  romantic 
image  of  him  formed  by  her  imagination. 

Two  or  three  extracts  may  not  be  unacceptable.  The 
following  are  from  a  long  rhapsody  addressed  to  Lord 
Byron :  — 

By  what  dread  charm  thou  rulest  the  mind 

It  is  not  given  for  us  to  know ; 
We  glow  with  feelings  undefined, 

Nor  can  explain  from  whence  they  flow. 

Not  that  fond  love  which  passion  breathes 

And  youthful  hearts  inflame ; 
The  soul  a  nobler  homage  gives, 

And  bows  to  thy  great  name. 

Oft  have  we  own'd  the  muses'  skill, 

And  proved  the  power  of  song, 
But  sweetest  notes  ne'er  woke  the  thrill 

That  solely  to  thy  verse  belong. 

This  —  but  far  more,  for  thee  we  prove, 
Something  that  bears  a  holier  name 

Than  the  pure  dream  of  early  love, 
Or  friendship's  nobler  flame. 


NEWSTEAD  ABBEY  81 

Something  divine  —  Oh !  what  it  is 

Thy  muse  alone  can  tell, 
So  sweet,  but  so  profound  the  bliss 

We  dread  to  break  the  spell. 

This  singular  and  romantic  infatuation,  for  such 
it  might  truly  be  called,  was  entirely  spiritual  and  ideal, 
for,  as  she  herself  declares  in  another  of  her  rhap 
sodies,  she  had  never  beheld  Lord  Byron;  he  was,  to 
her,  a  mere  phantom  of  the  brain. 

I  ne'er  have  drunk  thy  glance,  —  thy  form 

My  earthly  eye  has  never  seen, 
Though  oft  when  fancy's  visions  warm, 

It  greets  me  in  some  blissful  dream; 
Greets  me,  as  greets  the  sainted  seer 

Some  radiant  visitant  from  high, 
When  heaven's  own  strains  break  on  his  ear, 

And  wrap  his  soul  in  ecstasy. 

Her  poetical  wanderings  and  musings  were  not  con 
fined  to  the  Abbey  grounds,  but  extended  to  all  parts 
of  the  neighborhood  connected  with  the  memory  of 
Lord  Byron,  and  among  the  rest  to  the  groves  and 
gardens  of  Annesley  Hall,  the  seat  of  his  early  passion 
for  Miss  Chaworth.  One  of  her  poetical  effusions 
mentions  her  having  seen  from  Howet's  Hill  in  An 
nesley  Park,  a  "  sylph-like  form,"  in  a  car  drawn  by 
milk-white  horses,  passing  by  the  foot  of  the  hill,  who 
proved  to  be  the  "  favorite  child  "  seen  by  Lord  Byron 
in  his  memorable  interview  with  Miss  Chaworth  after 
her  marriage.  That  favorite  child  was  now  a  blooming 
girl  approaching  to  womanhood,  and  seems  to  have 
understood  something  of  the  character  and  story  of 
this  singular  visitant,  and  to  have  treated  her  with 
gentle  sympathy.  The  Little  White  Lady  expresses 
in  touching  terms,  in  a  note  to  her  verses,  her  sense  of 
this  gentle  courtesy.  "  The  benevolent  condescension," 
says  she,  "of  that  amiable  and  interesting  young  lady, 
to  the  unfortunate  writer  of  these  simple  lines,  will 
remain  engraved  upon  a  grateful  memory,  till  the  vital 


82  NEWSTEAD  ABBEY 

spark  that  now  animates  a  heart  that  too  sensibly  feels 
and  too  seldom  experiences  such  kindness,  is  forever 
extinct." 

In  the  meantime,  Colonel  Wildman,  in  occasional  in 
terviews,  had  obtained  further  particulars  of  the  story 
of  the  stranger,  and  found  that  poverty  was  added  to 
the  other  evils  of  her  forlorn  and  isolated  state.  Her 
name  was  Sophia  Hyatt.  She  was  the  daughter  of 
a  country  bookseller,  but  both  her  parents  had  died 
several  years  before.  At  their  death,  her  sole  depend 
ence  was  upon  her  brother,  who  allowed  her  a  small 
annuity  on  her  share  of  the  property  left  by  their 
father,  and  which  remained  in  his  hands.  Her  brother, 
who  was  a  captain  of  a  merchant  vessel,  removed  with 
his  family  to  America,  leaving  her  almost  alone  in  the 
world,  for  she  had  no  other  relative  in  England  but  a 
cousin,  of  whom  she  knew  almost  nothing.  She  re 
ceived  her  annuity  regularly  for  a  time,  but  unfortu 
nately  her  brother  died  in  the  West  Indies,  leaving  his 
affairs  in  confusion,  and  his  estate  overhung  by  several 
commercial  claims,  which  threatened  to  swallow  up  the 
whole.  Under  these  disastrous  circumstances,  her  an 
nuity  suddenly  ceased ;  she  had  in  vain  tried  to  obtain 
a  renewal  of  it  from  the  widow,  or  even  an  account  of 
the  state  of  her  brother's  affairs.  Her  letters  for  three 
years  past  had  remained  unanswered,  and  she  would 
have  been  exposed  to  the  horrors  of  the  most  abject 
want,  but  for  a  pittance  quarterly  doled  out  to  her  by 
her  cousin  in  England. 

Colonel  Wildman  entered  with  characteristic  benev 
olence  into  the  story  of  her  troubles.  He  saw  that 
she  was  a  helpless,  unprotected  being,  unable,  from 
her  infirmities  and  her  ignorance  of  the  world,  to 
prosecute  her  just  claims.  He  obtained  from  her  the 
address  of  her  relations  in  America,  and  of  the  com 
mercial  connection  of  her  brother;  promised,  through 
the  medium  of  his  own  agents  in  Liverpool,  to  insti- 


NEWSTEAD  ABBEY  83 

tute  an  inquiry  into  the  situation  of  her  brother's 
affairs,  and  to  forward  any  letters  she  might  write,  so 
as  to  insure  their  reaching  their  place  of  destination. 

Inspired  with  some  faint  hopes,  the  Little  White 
Lady  continued  her  wanderings  about  the  Abbey  and 
its  neighborhood.  The  delicacy  and  timidity  of  her 
deportment  increased  the  interest  already  felt  for  her 
by  Mrs.  Wildman.  That  lady,  with  her  wonted  kind 
ness,  sought  to  make  acquaintance  with  her,  and  in 
spire  her  with  confidence.  She  invited  her  into  the 
Abbey;  treated  her  with  the  most  delicate  attention, 
and,  seeing  that  she  had  a  great  turn  for  reading,  of 
fered  her  the  loan  of  any  books  in  her  possession.  She 
borrowed  a  few,  particularly  the  works  of  Sir  Walter 
Scott,  but  soon  returned  them;  the  writings  of  Lord 
Byron  seemed  to  form  the  only  study  in  which  she 
delighted,  and  when  not  occupied  in  reading  those,  her 
time  was  passed  in  passionate  meditations  on  his 
genius.  Her  enthusiasm  spread  an  ideal  world  around 
her,  in  which  she  moved  and  existed  as  in  a  dream, 
forgetful  at  times  of  the  real  miseries  which  beset 
her  in  her  mortal  state. 

One  of  her  rhapsodies  is,  however,  of  a  very  melan 
choly  cast;  anticipating  her  own  death,  which  her 
fragile  frame  and  growing  infirmities  rendered  but 
too  probable.  It  is  headed  by  the  following 
paragraph :  — 

"  Written  beneath  the  tree  on  Crowholt  Hill,  where 
it  is  my  wish  to  be  interred  (if  I  should  die  in 
Newstead)." 

I  subjoin  a  few  of  the  stanzas:  they  are  addressed 
to  Lord  Byron. 

Thou,  while  thou  stand's!  beneath  this  tree, 
While  by  thy  foot  this  earth  is  press'd, 

Think,  here  the  wanderer's  ashes  be  — 
And  wilt  thou  say,  sweet  be  thy  rest ! 


84  NEWSTEAD  ABBEY 

T  would  add  even  to  a  seraph's  bliss, 
Whose  sacred  charge  thou  then  may  be, 

To  guide  —  to  guard  —  yes,  Byron !  yes, 
That  glory  is  reserved  for  me. 

If  woes  below  may  plead  above 
A  frail  heart's  errors,  mine  forgiven, 

To  that  "  high  world  "  I  soar,  where  "  love 
Surviving  "  forms  the  bliss  of  Heaven. 

O  wheresoe'er,  in  realms  above, 

Assign'd  my  spirit's  new  abode, 
'T  will  watch  thee  with  a  seraph's  love, 

Till  thou  too  soar'st  to  meet  thy  God. 

And  here,  beneath  this  lonely  tree  — 

Beneath  the  earth  thy  feet  have  press'd, 

My  dust  shall  sleep  —  once  dear  to  thee 

These  scenes  —  here  may  the  wanderer  rest! 

In  the  midst  of  her  reveries  and  rhapsodies,  tidings 
reached  Newstead  of  the  untimely  death  of  Lord  By 
ron.  How  they  were  received  by  this  humble  but  pas 
sionate  devotee  I  could  not  ascertain ;  her  life  was  too 
obscure  and  lonely  to  furnish  much  personal  anecdote, 
but  among  her  poetical  effusions  are  several  written 
in  a  broken  and  irregular  manner  and  evidently  under 
great  agitation. 

The  following  sonnet  is  the  most  coherent  and  most 
descriptive  of  her  peculiar  state  of  mind :  — 

Well,  thou  art  gone  —  but  what  wert  thou  to  me  ? 

I  never  saw  thee  —  never  heard  thy  voice, 
Yet  my  soul  seemed  to  claim  affiance  with  thee. 

The  Roman  bard  has  sung  of  fields  Elysian, 
Where  the  soul  sojourns  ere  she  visits  earth; 

Sure  it  was  there  my  spirit  knew  thee,  Byron ! 
Thine  image  haunteth  me  like  a  past  vision  ; 

It  hath  enshrined  itself  in  my  heart's  core; 
'T  is  my  soul's  soul  —  it  fills  the  whole  creation. 

For  I  do  live  but  in  that  world  ideal 
Which  the  muse  peopleth  with  her  bright  fancies, 

And  of  that  world  thou  art  a  monarch  real, 
Nor  ever  earthly  sceptre  ruled  a  kingdom, 

With  sway  so  potent  as  thy  lyre,  the  mind's  dominion. 


NEWSTEAD  ABBEY  85 

Taking  all  the  circumstances  here  adduced  into  con 
sideration,  it  is  evident  that  this  strong  excitement  and 
exclusive  occupation  of  the  mind  upon  one  subject, 
operating  upon  a  system  in  a  high  state  of  morbid 
irritability,  was  in  danger  of  producing  that  species 
of  mental  derangement  called  monomania.  The  poor 
little  being  was  aware,  herself,  of  the  dangers  of  her 
case,  and  alluded  to  it  in  the  following  passage  of  a 
letter  to  Colonel  Wildman,  which  presents  one  of  the 
most  lamentable  pictures  of  anticipated  evil  ever  con 
jured  up  by  the  human  mind. 

"  I  have  long,"  writes  she,  "  too  sensibly  felt  the 
decay  of  my  mental  faculties,  which  I  consider  as  the 
certain  indication  of  that  dreaded  calamity  which  I 
anticipate  with  such  terror.  A  strange  idea  has  long 
haunted  my  mind,  that  Swift's  dreadful  fate  will  be 
mine.  It  is  not  ordinary  insanity  I  so  much  apprehend, 
but  something  worse  —  absolute  idiotism! 

"  O  sir !  think  what  I  must  suffer  from  such  an  idea, 
without  an  earthly  friend  to  look  up  to  for  protection 
in  such  a  wretched  state  —  exposed  to  the  indecent 
insults  which  such  spectacles  always  excite.  But  I 
dare  not  dwell  upon  the  thought;  it  would  facilitate 
the  event  I  so  much  dread  and  contemplate  with  hor 
ror.  Yet  I  cannot  help  thinking  from  people's  be 
havior  to  me  at  times,  and  from  after-reflections  upon 
my  conduct,  that  symptoms  of  the  disease  are  already 
apparent." 

Five  months  passed  away,  but  the  letters  written 
by  her,  and  forwarded  by  Colonel  Wildman  to 
America,  relative  to  her  brother's  affairs,  remained 
unanswered ;  the  inquiries  instituted  by  the  Colonel  had 
as  yet  proved  equally  fruitless.  A  deeper  gloom  and 
despondency  now  seemed  to  gather  upon  her  mind. 
She  began  to  talk  of  leaving  Newstead,  and  repairing 
to  London,  in  the  vague  hope  of  obtaining  relief  or 
redress  by  instituting  some  legal  process  to  ascertain 


86  NEWSTEAD  ABBEY 

and  enforce  the  will  of  her  deceased  brother.  Weeks 
elapsed,  however,  before  she  could  summon  up  suffi 
cient  resolution  to  tear  herself  away  from  the  scene  of 
poetical  fascination.  The  following  simple  stanzas, 
selected  from  a  number  written  about  the  time,  express 
in  humble  rhymes  the  melancholy  that  preyed  upon 
her  spirits :  — 

Farewell  to  thee,  Newstead,  thy  time-riven  towers 
Shall  meet  the  fond  gaze  of  the  pilgrim  no  more ; 

No  more  may  she  roam  through  thy  walks  and  thy  bowers 
Nor  muse  in  thy  cloisters  at  eve's  pensive  hour. 

Oh  how  shall  I  leave  you,  ye  hills  and  ye  dales, 
When  lost  in  sad  musing,  though  sad  not  unblest 

A  lone  pilgrim  I  stray  —  Ah !   in  these  lonely  vales, 
I  hoped,  vainly  hoped,  that  the  pilgrim  might  rest. 

Yet  rest  is  far  distant  —  in  the  dark  vale  of  death 

Alone  shall  I  find  it,  an  outcast  forlorn  — 
But  hence  vain  complaints,  though  by  fortune  bereft 

Of  all  that  could  solace  in  life's  early  morn. 

Is  not  man  from  his  birth  doomed  a  pilgrim  to  roam 
O'er  the  world's  dreary  wilds,  whence  by  fortune's  rude  gust, 

In  his  path,  if  some  flowret  of  joy  chanced  to  bloom, 
It  is  torn  and  its  foliage  laid  low  in  the  dust. 

At  length  she  fixed  upon  a  day  for  her  departure. 
On  the  day  previous,  she  paid  a  farewell  visit  to  the 
Abbey ;  wandering  over  every  part  of  the  grounds  and 
garden;  pausing  and  lingering  at  every  place  par 
ticularly  associated  with  the  recollection  of  Lord  By 
ron  ;  and  passing  a  long  time  seated  at  the  foot  of  the 
monument,  which  she  used  to  call  "  her  altar."  Seek 
ing  Mrs.  Wildman,  she  placed  in  her  hands  a  sealed 
packet,  with  an  earnest  request  that  she  would  not 
open  it  until  after  her  departure  from  the  neighbor 
hood.  This  done,  she  took  an  affectionate  leave  of 
her,  and  with  many  bitter  tears  bade  farewell  to  the 
Abbey. 

On  retiring  to  her  room  that  evening,  Mrs.  Wildman 
could  not  refrain  from  inspecting  the  legacy  of  this 


NEWSTEAD  ABBEY  87 

singular  being.  On  opening  the  packet,  she  found  a 
number  of  fugitive  poems,  written  in  a  most  delicate 
and  minute  hand,  and  evidently  the  fruits  of  her  rev 
eries  and  meditations  during  her  lonely  rambles ;  from 
these  the  foregoing  extracts  have  been  made.  These 
were  accompanied  by  a  voluminous  letter,  written  with 
the  pathos  and  eloquence  of  genuine  feeling,  and  de 
picting  her  peculiar  situation  and  singular  state  of 
mind  in  dark  but  painful  colors. 

"  The  last  time,"  says  she,  "  that  I  had  the  pleasure 
of  seeing  you,  in  the  garden,  you  asked  me  why  I 
leave  Newstead;  when  I  told  you  my  circumstances 
obliged  me,  the  expression  of  concern  which  I  fancied 
I  observed  in  your  look  and  manner  would  have  en 
couraged  me  to  have  been  explicit  at  the  time,  but  from 
my  inability  of  expressing  myself  verbally." 

She  then  goes  on  to  detail  precisely  her  pecuniary 
circumstances,  by  which  it  appears  that  her  whole  de 
pendence  for  subsistence  was  on  an  allowance  of  thir 
teen  pounds  a  year  from  her  cousin,  who  bestowed  it 
through  a  feeling  of  pride,  lest  his  relative  should 
come  upon  the  parish.  During  two  years  this  pittance 
had  been  augmented  from  other  sources,  to  twenty- 
three  pounds,  but  the  last  year  it  had  shrunk  within 
its  original  bounds,  and  was  yielded  so  grudgingly,  that 
she  could  not  feel  sure  of  its  continuance  from  one 
quarter  to  another.  More  than  once  it  had  been  with 
held  on  slight  pretences,  and  she  was  in  constant  dread 
lest  it  should  be  entirely  withdrawn. 

"  It  is  with  extreme  reluctance,"  observes  she,  "  that 
I  have  so  far  exposed  my  unfortunate  situation;  but 
I  thought  you  expected  to  know  something  more  of  it, 
and  I  feared  that  Colonel  Wildman,  deceived  by  ap 
pearances,  might  think  that  I  am  in  no  immediate  want, 
and  that  the  delay  of  a  few  weeks,  or  months,  respect 
ing  the  inquiry,  can  be  of  no  material  consequence. 
It  is  absolutely  necessary  to  the  success  of  the  business 


88  NEWSTEAD  ABBEY 

that  Colonel  Wildman  should  know  the  exact  state  of 
my  circumstances  without  reserve,  that  he  may  be  en 
abled  to  make  a  correct  representation  of  them  to  any 
gentleman  whom  he  intends  to  interest,  who,  I  pre 
sume,  if  they  are  not  of  America  themselves,  have 
some  connections  there,  through  whom  my  friends  may 
be  convinced  of  the  reality  of  my  distress,  if  they 
pretend  to  doubt  it,  as  I  suppose  they  do:  but  to  be 
more  explicit  is  impossible;  it  would  be  too  humiliat 
ing  to  particularize  the  circumstances  of  the  embar 
rassment  in  which  I  am  unhappily  involved  —  my  utter 
destitution.  To  disclose  all,  might,  too,  be  liable  to 
an  inference  which  I  hope  I  am  not  so  void  of  delicacy, 
of  natural  pride,  as  to  endure  the  thought  of.  Pardon 
me,  madam,  for  thus  giving  trouble  where  I  have  no 
right  to  do  —  compelled  to  throw  myself  upon  Colonel 
Wildman's  humanity,  to  entreat  his  earnest  exertions 
in  my  behalf,  for  it  is  now  my  only  resource.  Yet  do 
not  too  much  despise  me  for  thus  submitting  to  im 
perious  necessity,  —  it  is  not  love  of  life,  believe  me 
it  is  not,  nor  anxiety  for  its  preservation.  I  cannot 
say,  '  There  are  things  that  make  the  world  dear  to 
me,'  —  for  in  the  world  there  is  not  an  object  to  make 
me  wish  to  linger  here  another  hour,  could  I  find  that 
rest  and  peace  in  the  grave  which  I  have  never  found 
on  earth,  and  I  fear  will  be  denied  me  there." 

Another  part  of  her  letter  develops  more  completely 
the  dark  despondency  hinted  at  in  the  conclusion  of  the 
foregoing  extract  —  and  presents  a  lamentable  in 
stance  of  a  mind  diseased,  which  sought  in  vain,  amidst 
sorrow  and  calamity,  the  sweet  consolations  of  relig 
ious  faith. 

"  That  my  existence  has  hitherto  been  prolonged," 
says  she,  "  often  beyond  what  I  have  thought  to  have 
been  its  destined  period,  is  astonishing  to  myself. 
Often  when  my  situation  has  been  as  desperate,  as 
hopeless,  or  more  so,  if  possible,  than  it  is  at  present, 


NEWSTEAD  ABBEY  89 

some  unexpected  interposition  of  Providence  has  res 
cued  me  from  a  fate  that  has  appeared  inevitable.  I 
do  not  particularly  allude  to  recent  circumstances  or 
latter  years,  for  from  my  earlier  years  I  have  been  the 
child  of  Providence  —  then  why  should  I  distrust  its 
care  now?  I  do  not  distrust  it  —  neither  do  I  trust 
it.  I  feel  perfectly  unanxious,  unconcerned,  and  in 
different  as  to  the  future;  but  this  is  not  trust  in 
Providence  —  not  that  trust  which  alone  claims  its 
protection.  I  know  this  is  a  blamable  indifference  — 
it  is  more  —  for  it  reaches  to  the  interminable  future. 
It  turns  almost  with  disgust  from  the  bright  prospects 
which  religion  offers  for  the  consolation  and  support 
of  the  wretched,  and  to  which  I  was  early  taught,  by 
an  almost  adored  mother,  to  look  forward  with  hope 
and  joy;  but  to  me  they  can  afford  no  consolation. 
Not  that  I  doubt  the  sacred  truths  that  religion  incul 
cates.  I  cannot  doubt  —  though  I  confess  I  have 
sometimes  tried  to  do  so,  because  I  no  longer  wish  for 
that  immortality  of  which  it  assures  us.  My  only  wish 
now  is  for  rest  and  peace  —  endless  rest.  '  For  rest  — 
but  not  to  feel  't  is  rest/  but  I  cannot  delude  myself 
with  the  hope  that  such  rest  will  be  my  lot.  I  feel  an 
internal  evidence,  stronger  than  any  arguments  that 
reason  or  religion  can  enforce,  that  I  have  that  within 
me  which  is  imperishable;  that  drew  not  its  origin 
from  the  '  clod  of  the  valley.'  With  this  conviction, 
but  without  a  hope  to  brighten  the  prospect  of  that 
dread  future,  — 

'  I  dare  not  look  beyond  the  tomb, 

Yet  cannot  hope  for  peace  before.' 

"  Such  an  unhappy  frame  of  mind,  I  am  sure, 
madam,  must  excite  your  commiseration.  It  is  perhaps 
owing,  in  part  at  least,  to  the  solitude  in  which  I  have 
lived,  I  may  say,  even  in  the  midst  of  society,  when 
I  have  mixed  in  it,  as  my  infirmities  entirely  exclude 


90  NEWSTEAD  ABBEY 

me  from  that  sweet  intercourse  of  kindred  spirits  — 
that  sweet  solace  of  refined  conversation;  the  little 
intercourse  I  have  at  any  time  with  those  around  me 
cannot  be  termed  conversation,  —  they  are  not  kindred 
spirits ;  —  and  even  where  circumstances  have  asso 
ciated  me  (but  rarely  indeed)  with  superior  and  culti 
vated  minds,  who  have  not  disdained  to  admit  me  to 
their  society,  they  could  not  by  all  their  generous 
efforts,  even  in  early  youth,  lure  from  my  dark  soul 
the  thoughts  that  loved  to  lie  buried  there,  nor  inspire 
me  with  the  courage  to  attempt  their  disclosure;  and 
yet  of  all  the  pleasures  of  polished  life  which  fancy 
has  often  pictured  to  me  in  such  vivid  colors,  there  is 
not  one  that  I  have  so  ardently  coveted  as  that  sweet 
reciprocation  of  ideas,  the  supreme  bliss  of  enlightened 
minds  in  the  hour  of  social  converse.  But  this  I  knew 
was  not  decreed  for  me,  — 

'  Yet  this  was  in  my  nature,'  — 

but  since  the  loss  of  my  hearing,  I  have  always  been 
incapable  of  verbal  conversation.  I  need  not,  however, 
inform  you,  madam,  of  this.  At  the  first  interview 
with  which  you  favored  me,  you  quickly  discovered 
my  peculiar  unhappiness  in  this  respect :  you  perceived, 
from  my  manner,  that  any  attempt  to  draw  me  into 
conversation  would  be  in  vain :  had  it  been  otherwise, 
perhaps  you  would  not  have  disdained  now  and  then  to 
have  soothed  the  lonely  wanderer  with  yours.  I  have 
sometimes  fancied,  when  I  have  seen  you  in  the  walk, 
that  you  seemed  to  wish  to  encourage  me  to  throw  my 
self  in  your  way.  Pardon  me  if  my  imagination,  too 
apt  to  beguile  me  with  such  dear  illusions,  has  deceived 
me  into  too  presumptuous  an  idea  here.  You  must 
have  observed  that  I  generally  endeavored  to  avoid 
both  you  and  Colonel  Wildman.  It  was  to  spare  your 
generous  hearts  the  pain  of  witnessing  distress  you 
could  not  alleviate.  Thus  cut  off,  as  it  were,  from  all 


NEWSTEAD  ABBEY  91 

human  society,  I  have  been  compelled  to  live  in  a  world 
of  my  own,  and  certainly  with  the  beings  with  which 
my  world  is  peopled  I  am  at  no  loss  to  converse.  But, 
though  I  love  solitude  and  am  never  in  want  of  sub 
jects  to  amuse  my  fancy,  yet  solitude  too  much  in 
dulged  in  must  necessarily  have  an  unhappy  effect 
upon  the  mind,  which,  when  left  to  seek  for  resources 
wholly  within  itself,  will  unavoidably,  in  hours  of 
gloom  and  despondency,  brood  over  corroding  thoughts 
that  prey  upon  the  spirits,  and  sometimes  terminate 
in  confirmed  misanthropy  —  especially  with  those  who, 
from  constitution  or  early  misfortunes,  are  inclined  to 
melancholy,  and  to  view  human  nature  in  its  dark 
shades.  And  have  I  not  cause  for  gloomy  reflections? 
The  utter  loneliness  of  my  lot  would  alone  have  ren 
dered  existence  a  curse  to  one  whose  heart  nature  has 
formed  glowing  with  all  the  warmth  of  social  affection, 
yet  without  an  object  on  which  to  place  it  —  without 
one  natural  connection,  one  earthly  friend  to  appeal 
to,  to  shield  me  from  the  contempt,  indignities,  and 
insults,  to  which  my  deserted  situation  continually  ex 
posed  me." 

I  am  giving  long  extracts  from  this  letter,  yet  I 
cannot  refrain  from  subjoining  another  letter,  which 
depicts  her  feelings  with  respect  to  Newstead. 

"  Permit  me,  madam,  again  to  request  your  and 
Colonel  Wildman's  acceptance  of  those  acknowledg 
ments  which  I  cannot  too  often  repeat,  for  your  un 
exampled  goodness  to  a  rude  stranger.  I  know  I  ought 
not  to  have  taken  advantage  of  your  extreme  good 
nature  so  frequently  as  I  have.  I  should  have  absented 
myself  from  your  garden  during  the  stay  of  the  com 
pany  at  the  Abbey;  but,  as  I  knew  I  must  be  gone 
long  before  they  would  leave  it,  I  could  not  deny  my 
self  the  indulgence,  as  you  so  freely  gave  me  your 
permission  to  continue  my  walks ;  but  now  they  are  at 
an  end.  I  have  taken  my  last  farewell  of  every  dear 


92  NEWSTEAD  ABBEY 

and  interesting  spot,  which  I  now  never  hope  to  see 
again,  unless  my  disembodied  spirit  may  be  permitted 
to  revisit  them.  —  Yet,  oh!  if  Providence  should  en 
able  me  again  to  support  myself  with  any  degree  of 
respectability,  and  you  should  grant  me  some  little 
humble  shed,  with  what  joy  shall  I  return,  and  renew 
my  delightful  rambles.  But  dear  as  Newstead  is  to 
me,  I  will  never  again  come  under  the  same  unhappy 
circumstances  as  I  have  this  last  time  —  never  without 
the  means  of  at  least  securing  myself  from  contempt. 
How  dear,  how  very  dear  Newstead  is  to  me,  how  un 
conquerable  the  infatuation  that  possesses  me,  I  am 
now  going  to  give  a  too  convincing  proof.  In  offering 
to  your  acceptance  the  worthless  trifles  that  will  ac 
company  this,  I  hope  you  will  believe  that  I  have  no 
view  to  your  amusement.  I  dare  not  hope  that  the 
consideration  of  their  being  the  products  of  your  own 
garden,  and  most  of  them  written  there,  in  my  little 
tablet,  while  sitting  at  the  foot  of  my  Altar  —  I  could 
not,  I  cannot  resist  the  earnest  desire  of  leaving  this 
memorial  of  the  many  happy  hours  I  have  there  en 
joyed.  Oh!  do  not  reject  them,  madam;  suffer  them 
to  remain  with  you ;  and  if  you  should  deign  to  honor 
them  with  a  perusal,  when  you  read  them,  repress,  if 
you  can,  the  smile  that  I  know  will  too  naturally  arise 
when  you  recollect  the  appearance  of  the  wretched 
being  who  has  dared  to  devote  her  whole  soul  to  the 
contemplation  of  such  more  than  human  excellence. 
Yet  ridiculous  as  such  devotion  may  appear  to  some, 
I  must  take  leave  to  say,  that,  if  the  sentiments  which 
I  have  entertained  for  that  exalted  being  could  be 
duly  appreciated,  I  trust  they  would  be  found  to  be  of 
such  a  nature  as  is  no  dishonor  even  for  him  to  have 
inspired.  .  .  . 

"  I  am  now  coming  to  take  a  last,  last  view  of  scenes 
too  deeply  impressed  upon  my  memory  ever  to  be 
effaced  even  by  madness  itself.  O  madam!  may  you 


NEWSTEAD  ABBEY  93 

never  know,  nor  be  able  to  conceive  the  agony  I  en 
dure  in  tearing  myself  from  all  that  the  world  con 
tains  of  dear  and  sacred  to  me :  the  only  spot  on  earth 
where  I  can  ever  hope  for  peace  or  comfort.  —  May 
every  blessing  the  world  has  to  bestow  attend  you,  or, 
rather,  may  you  long,  long  live  in  the  enjoyment  of 
the  delights  of  your  own  paradise,  in  secret  seclusion 
from  a  world  that  has  no  real  blessings  to  bestow. 
Now  I  go ;  —  but  O  might  I  dare  to  hope  that,  when 
you  are  enjoying  these  blissful  scenes,  a  thought  of 
the  unhappy  wanderer  might  sometimes  cross  your 
mind,  how  soothing  would  such  an  idea  be,  if  I  dared 
to  indulge  it;  —  could  you  see  my  heart  at  this  mo 
ment,  how  needless  would  it  be  to  assure  you  of  the 
respectful  gratitude,  the  affectionate  esteem,  this  heart 
must  ever  bear  you  both." 

The  effect  of  this  letter  upon  the  sensitive  heart  of 
Mrs.  Wildman  may  be  more  readily  conceived  than 
expressed.  Her  first  impulse  was  to  give  a  home  to 
this  poor  homeless  being,  and  to  fix  her  in  the  midst 
of  those  scenes  which  formed  her  earthly  paradise. 
She  communicated  her  wishes  to  Colonel  Wildman, 
and  they  met  with  an  immediate  response  in  his  gener 
ous  bosom.  It  was  settled  on  the  spot,  that  an  apart 
ment  should  be  fitted  up  for  the  Little  White  Lady 
in  one  of  the  new  farm-houses,  and  every  arrangement 
made  for  her  comfortable  and  permanent  maintenance 
on  the  estate.  With  a  woman's  prompt  benevolence, 
Mrs.  Wildman,  before  she  laid  her  head  upon  her 
pillow,  wrote  the  following  letter  to  the  destitute 
stranger :  — 

"  NEWSTEAD  ABBEY,  Tuesday  night,  Sept.  2Oth,  1825. 
"  On  retiring  to  my  bedchamber  this  evening,  I  have 
opened  your  letter,  and  cannot  lose  a  moment  in  ex 
pressing  to  you  the  strong  interest  which  it  has  ex 
cited  both  in  Colonel  Wildman  and  myself,  from  the 


94  NEWSTEAD  ABBEY 

details  of  your  peculiar  situation,  and  the  delicate, 
and,  let  me  add,  elegant  language  in  which  they  are 
conveyed.  I  am  anxious  that  my  note  should  reach  you 
previous  to  your  departure  from  this  neighborhood, 
and  should  be  truly  happy  if,  by  any  arrangement  for 
your  accommodation,  I  could  prevent  the  necessity  of 
your  undertaking  the  journey.  Colonel  Wildman  begs 
me  to  assure  you  that  he  will  use  his  best  exertion  in 
the  investigation  of  those  matters  which  you  have  con 
fided  to  him,  and  should  you  remain  here  at  present, 
or  return  again  after  a  short  absence,  I  trust  we  shall 
find  means  to  become  better  acquainted,  and  to  con 
vince  you  of  the  interest  I  feel,  and  the  real  satisfac 
tion  it  would  afford  me  to  contribute  in  any  way  to 
your  comfort  and  happiness.  I  will  only  now  add  my 
thanks  for  the  little  packet  which  I  received  with  your 
letter,  and  I  must  confess  that  the  letter  has  so  entirely 
engaged  my  attention,  that  I  have  not  as  yet  had  time 
for  the  attentive  perusal  of  its  companion. 
"  Believe  me,  dear  madam, 

"  with  sincere  good  wishes, 
"  Yours  truly, 

"  LOUISA  WILDMAN." 

Early  the  next  morning  a  servant  was  dispatched 
with  the  letter  to  the  Weir  Mill  farm,  but  returned 
with  the  information  that  the  Little  White  Lady  had 
set  off,  before  his  arrival,  in  company  with  the  farmer's 
wife,  in  a  cart  for  Nottingham,  to  take  her  place  in 
the  coach  for  London.  Mrs.  Wildman  ordered  him 
to  mount  horse  instantly,  follow  with  all  speed,  and 
deliver  the  letter  into  her  hand  before  the  departure 
of  the  coach. 

The  bearer  of  good  tidings  spared  neither  whip 
nor  spur,  and  arrived  at  Nottingham  on  a  gallop.  On 
entering  the  town,  a  crowd  obstructed  him  in  the  prin 
cipal  street.  He  checked  his  horse  to  make  his  way 


NEWSTEAD  ABBEY  95 

through  it  quietly.  As  the  crowd  opened  to  the  right 
and  left,  he  beheld  a  human  body  lying  on  the  pave 
ment.  It  was  the  corpse  of  the  Little  White  Lady! 

It  seems,  that,  on  arriving  in  town  and  dismounting 
from  the  cart,  the  farmer's  wife  had  parted  with  her 
to  go  on  an  errand,  and  the  Little  White  Lady  con 
tinued  on  toward  the  coach-office.  In  crossing  a  street, 
a  cart  came  along,  driven  at  a  rapid  rate.  The  driver 
called  out  to  her,  but  she  was  too  deaf  to  hear  his  voice 
or  the  rattling  of  his  cart.  In  an  instant  she  was 
knocked  down  by  the  horse,  the  wheels  passed  over  her 
body,  and  she  died  without  a  groan. 


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